


Of Fear and Lyrium

by MaryDragon



Series: Noble Thief [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lyrium Addiction, Other, Spoilers, mild AU, now with art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 04:53:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 87,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3196010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryDragon/pseuds/MaryDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Evelyn Trevelyan, thief, and reluctant Herald of Andraste. POV shifts between Evelyn and Cullen.<br/>Creation of (what I hope are) more believable motivations for Cullen and Evelyn's relationship.<br/>While closely following the events of DA:I, there are some alterations from canon in conversations, architecture, and chronology. Minor original characters. Expansion of known relationships and referral to relationships in DA:O and DA2.<br/>Will get mildly smutty.<br/>Also, SPOILERS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Haven: Waking Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOW WITH ART  
> Did I put this somewhere else?  
> Don't care.  
> Evelyn's portrait by the mighty [GRIMMCAKE](http://grimmcake.tumblr.com/)  
> 

 

Evelyn had awoken in cells before. Woken up in irons once before, too. But this time was substantially different.

For starters, she was the only thing in the room. The manacles on her wrists were locked to spikes jutting out of the floor beside her; it looked like they’d mortared the stones of the floor on top of a steel plate the spikes extended from. This room was meant to hold something a lot more formidable than a common thief, regardless of how good she was getting with her blades.

She was slumped on her knees on the floor, held in place by the manacles and an odd hollow in the floor of the cell. The ache in her knees told her she’d been out for quite a while. She didn’t straighten at once; it might be better if her captors didn’t know she was awake.

But that brought her to the point that made this incarceration so different: Evelyn had no idea who her captors were. Or, for that matter, where she was being held captive. Most importantly, she didn’t have the first clue _why_ she was imprisoned. What in Andraste’s name had she gotten herself into now?

She used her peripheral vision to scan the room. There was the standard steel-barred front wall to the cell, and the remaining three were solid stone. Very old stone, too, it seemed. She got the distinct impression she wasn’t in the ‘Marches.

No, of course not. The conclave. She’d been sent to the Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Her father had needed a break from bailing her out and sent her to Fereldon as a representative of clan and country.

Evelyn risked a small movement of her head to try to broaden her field of view.  No guard at the door, that was promising. The manacles were tight, but there was enough play in the chains that she could probably pick a lock. If she could get one, the others would be simple.

She kept lock picks stitched into the sleeves of all her clothes, just for this reason. But reaching one hand across to the other to reach for the picks would cause the chain to drag across the floor. If she was unguarded, it wouldn’t matter. If she was being watched but just couldn’t see the guard, she would be heard. It still might not matter, if she was being left here to rot. But if whoever had her chained the floor of a frozen stone cell was waiting for her to wake up, the first sound she made would destroy any chances she had of escape.

If she didn’t try, she wouldn’t escape regardless of how much noise she made, so she decided to risk it.

She kept the chain links off the ground as long as she could, carefully gauging the tension in the line. She slowed to a near standstill as the chain pulled taut, and quit breathing as the chain dragged slowly across the floor. As her right hand touched her left wrist, she heard a man with a Fereldan accent call, “Alert the Lady Seeker,” and a pair of footsteps disappeared into the distance.

 _“Fuck,_ ” she hissed, and set about freeing herself with alacrity. She grabbed at the sleeve of her jacket, worked it free of the manacle, and then reached for the cuff of the shirt beneath.

The lock picks were gone.

“Who the fuck would find those?” she muttered to herself, preparing to dislocate her thumb on the left side to get out of at least one of the restraints. She glanced down at her hand to verify there was enough space in the manacle, and froze.

The palm of her hand looked like it had been sliced open. Instead of seeing her muscles and tendons, however, inside the gash was a swirling fog of noxious green gases. The torn edges that should have been raw skin were black; it was as if someone had poured liquid magic into her hand, and the flesh had opened up to accept it.

Her stomach churned at the idea.

As she looked at it, the gash in her palm spasmed, the swirling greens flaring briefly as fire lanced up her arm in response. Evelyn fought to bite back a scream, but managed only to stifle it into a gasp of pain. The strange flare faded quickly, but an ache settled into Evelyn’s left arm from the elbow down.

“Andraste’s melting nipples, what the fuck have I gotten into?”

“That is what we would all like to know,” a cold female voice said in a thick Navarran accent from the cell door. Evelyn’s head jerked up. Evelyn had been told, while en route to the Conclave, a great deal of Chantry politics to help her avoid shaming her family any more than she already had. The two women who entered the room now were undoubtedly the Left and Right Hands of the Divine.

Evelyn’s stomach sank to the floor. She was dead.

“Give me one reason why we shouldn’t kill you now,” Cassandra hissed.

For the first time she could remember in years, and definitely the first time in a jail cell, Evelyn dropped all pretense and embraced the truth. “I don’t know,” she said, over and over again. The Seeker’s questions were garbled nonsense; while they were phrased in proper Common they sounded like paranoid ravings.

Evelyn thought hard, but the only thing she could remember was the nightmare she seemed to have been having while she was chained to the floor. She described being chased by grey… things… and a woman taking her hand. She didn’t see as how it was relevant, but it had a profound effect on both the Divine’s Hands.

Leliana seemed to decide something. “We need her, Cassandra.”

That should have been relieving. Evelyn should have been glad to hear she had a purpose, and wouldn’t die in some remote prison with no idea what sin she was taking to the Maker’s side.

Cassandra unshackled her from the floor and chained her wrists together, dragging her to her feet.

“What happened to the Conclave?” Evelyn asked, trying to pick at the common thread in the Seeker’s ravings.

“It will be best to see it for yourself.”

 

*

 

It was the understatement of the year. Likely the Age.

Cassandra’s ravings became painfully more understandable as Evelyn looked up into the terror that had become the sky. As they drew closer, she explained how Evelyn had _stepped out of_ that thing, and her mind swum.  
The breach was also the same swirling, sickly green as the bizarre rift in Evelyn’s palm.

Cassandra caught her comparing the two, and nodded a bit smugly.

“I understand why you suspect me,” Evelyn said as they climbed toward the Temple. “Shit, I would suspect me if I had any idea how magic worked. I have always been glad I’m not a mage, but now…? I need to spend some time in the Chantry.”

Cassandra started to laugh but quickly caught herself. She didn’t have time to retort, as they were suddenly attacked by what could only be demons.

Evelyn cast about for bodies. Everyone carried a dagger, if she could just find a corpse that was still armed, she could help.

Ten paces behind Cassandra, a man-at-arms had fallen. Evelyn kept her eyes from the ruin that was the man’s face, but thrilled to see the double daggers still clenched in his fists. She quickly crossed to him, pulled the grips from his stiffened hands, and threw herself into the fight.

Cassandra saw her immediately, as she flanked the shrieking mass of fire that was throwing itself at Cassandra’s shield.

The Seeker was plainly displeased, but Evelyn’s daggers opened the demon from skull to spleen and it turned bizarrely inside-out before vanishing into a spray of green slime.

The same color as the breach. The same color as the gash in Evelyn’s hand. She swallowed, hard.

Cassandra’s sword was in her face. “Lay down your weapons!”

Glancing at how the dagger in her left hand was being etched and burned by the rift in her palm, Evelyn could completely empathize with the Seeker’s fear. She spun the daggers around and offered them, hilt-first, to the Seeker. “Of course,” she said mildly. “But, please… rather than leave them behind, carry them with us? You can throw them to me if we get in another fight.”

Cassandra glared at her for a moment, and then shook her head, sheathing her sword. “You have a valid point. And you could have fled once I was engaged.” She motioned Evelyn to keep the daggers, and then stepped close to her and produced the manacle key. The steel cuffs dropped off Evelyn’s wrists, and she rubbed the exposed skin.  “Do not make me regret this.”

“Oh, I am quite sure we both already do,” Evelyn said brightly.

Surprised, the Seeker stared at her for a moment before allowing herself to laugh. “Maker preserve me, there’s two of them now.”

She didn’t explain her comment, and Evelyn didn’t ask. It was explained a few minutes later when they rushed into a fight in progress, an elven mage standing back-to-back with a dwarven crossbowman. As they cleared the demons pressing in on them, the mage grabbed Evelyn’s left wrist and aimed her palm at a writhing green mass in the air she hadn’t noticed before. His touch on her wrist felt… odd. Familiar, somehow. She felt power surge through the back of her hand and out the palm, and a stream of that swirling green shot out of her hand towards the mass in the air, as if it was being called home. After a moment, a pulse of energy pushed her palm back, and the mass in the air disappeared in a flash of green ooze, just as the demons had.

Evelyn stared at the elf as he released her wrist, and then looked down to see the gash on her hand was unchanged.

“I don’t have the vocabulary for this shit,” she said to no one in particular.

The elf didn’t seem to hear her. He was explaining how he was right about the mark on her hand closing the rift. Mark and Rift seemed like perfectly inadequate words for the frank horror they referred to, but it was all Evelyn had to work with.

Introductions were made – the elf was named Solas, the dwarf called Varric Tethras and his crossbow, Bianca.

Evelyn shook her head. “The author?”

Varric grinned. “So you’ve heard of me.”

Evelyn laughed, “I suppose I have.”

Cassandra didn’t have time for their conversation. There was another rift between them and the Temple, and if the mark on Evelyn’s hand could close it, that’s where they needed to be.

The piles of bodies in a rough circle around the rift they’d just closed were all the reason Evelyn needed. People were dying around these rifts; the faster she closed them, the more people who would live. Simple moral obligation, nice and tidy.

It was a sign of how bad things were that throwing herself at a hole in the air that was spitting out demons was an easy decision to make.

They closed the next rift after a dirty little fight. Evelyn’s left arm ached to the shoulder now, and every time her mark pulsed it nearly drove her to her knees. It seemed they were running straight uphill, and Evelyn vaguely remembered the Temple had been perched on the side of the mountain above Haven. She’d made the last trip on horseback.

They reached the causeway to the Temple, to find it heavily fortified. Evelyn was glad of the reprieve. Varric was muttering at her elbow as they crossed to where Sister Leliana, the Left Hand of the Divine, was being screamed at by an older male cleric. “Way too old for this shit.”

Evelyn snorted, and he smirked at her.

“Could be worse,” she said back, voice pitched low so as not to carry. “You could be this guy.”

Varric chuckled. “Not on your life, lady. I will never be so old that yelling at the Nightingale sounds like a good idea.”

“Not at this rate,” Cassandra agreed over her shoulder, and Evelyn and Varric both laughed. Cassandra sighed, a strangled sound, as she cut off the cleric in defense of Leliana. Varric winked at Evelyn, and Cassandra’s despair at there being _two  of them now_ made Evelyn grin.

She realized then that the cleric was yelling about _her_ and how she needed to be executed, and that brought her attention round real quick. Before she could speak in her defense, she was astonished to hear Cassandra clearing her of all charges. The pardon of the Right Hand of the Divine had to be worth something.

But then they were arguing about how to approach the Temple, and Evelyn was struggling to keep up. Storm the front or sneak around behind; one saved a contingent of scouts, while the other would spare a unit of soldiers.

They were all looking at her. “Wait, you want me to decide?”

“Consider it the tiebreaker,” Leliana said with a smile.

“So my choices are people die or people die? Forgive me for saying it, but _fuck those options_.”

Varric laugh floated up from just behind her right shoulder. “Everyone else has been making that choice for three days now, while you had a nice rest. It’s your turn to feel like shit.”

Evelyn grunted. “Fine. Soldiers have a better chance of defending themselves than scouts, and I am definitely more of a sneaky type than a forward charge type. Let’s take the mountain path.”

Cassandra was obviously pissed, but Leliana and Varric seemed to agree with her choice.

On the way up the mountain, Cassandra explained to Evelyn how the soldiers who witnessed her step out of a rift directly below the hole in the sky – that they had taken to calling The Breach in another monumental understatement – had seen a woman behind her. Evelyn’s “dream” was possibly her memory of the event. She was unconscious as she arrived, falling limply out of the air. At least one soldier had wanted to kill her on sight, but the Commander had insisted Evelyn was instead brought in for questioning.

“So I owe the Commander a drink,” Evelyn said as Cassandra paused for breath. Varric quickly informed her that she could buy him one, too, if she was feeling generous.

“If he survives the onslaught in front of the Temple,” Cassandra replied. “Commander Cullen leads from the front.”

“Well, shit,” Evelyn sighed, and Cassandra shot Varric a sharp look that had the dwarf cackling. “I guess I owe him two.”

“Don’t look at me, Seeker,” Varric said happily. “It must be a rogue thing.”

Cassandra continued her rough monologue, being the only person both willing and able to converse as they climbed the steep trail: Evelyn was in pain and exhausted, Varric was grumbling about humans building on _top_ of mountains like idiots, and Solas seemed to be strictly antisocial.

“Solas sat with you while you were unconscious, studying the mark on your hand,” Cassandra was saying, and Evelyn bowed her gratitude to the elf. He mutely nodded acceptance. “That would be why your grip on my wrist seemed familiar, then,” she said with a smile.

That was apparently the wrong answer, as the elf scowled and retreated back into his thoughts.

“Cheer up, Chuckles,” Varric said, clapping the elf on the back. “Now you get to go back to Haven and tell everybody you were right.”

Solas deigned not to answer.

Not long after, they came across the sound of fighting, and raced through a narrow gorge to find Leliana’s scouts cornered in a ravine. A rift seemed to have opened right on top of them, and they were hard pressed. The four new-comers flanked the besieging demons and quickly dispatched the rift.

“There’s another dozen witnesses to your good works, Limey,” Varric said as the scouts stammered thanks and fell into formation behind them.

“Limey?” Evelyn wondered.

“Give it some time, I’ll find one that fits.”

“You give everybody nicknames?”

Varric shrugged.

“Anybody ever give one to you?”

The dwarf laughed. “The one I hear most is, hey asshole.”

“Fitting,” Cassandra grunted from ahead.

Nothing could have prepared Evelyn for what she saw when they reached the top of the trail.

“Where the fuck is the Temple?” she asked, stunned.

“Gone,” Cassandra said slowly. “Everything was fine, and then there was an explosion that knocked every loose pine needle out of the forest from here to Haven. And then the Temple was gone, and The Breach swirled where it had previously stood. Did the Breach cause the explosion? Did the explosion cause the Breach? The only thing we know for sure is that the rifts started opening after the Breach, and you fell out of one of those rifts.”

“Alright,” Evelyn said slowly, picking her way to the edge of the crater. “How did I get _in_ the rift?”

“Where do you last remember being?” Solas asked suddenly.

“At the Conclave,” Evelyn shrugged. “It seems foggy… but the last thing I truly remember is walking down a hallway inside the Temple, on some errand to or from my room.”

“You were _at_  the Conclave?” Varric asked, as Cassandra’s eyes shot daggers at them both.

Evelyn shrugged, confused. “Weren’t all of you?”

Solas slowly shook his head. “We were all in Haven. So you likely went into the rift at the Conclave? That does not explain the time difference between the explosion and when you were found, but time can flow differently in the Fade.”

“Who are you, kiddo, that you were at the Conclave?”

Evelyn sighed. She kind of liked the anonymity. “I am Evelyn Trevelyan, youngest daughter of Lord Trevelyan, fifteenth of his name. I was part of a contingent of nobility sent from the Free Marches to bear witness to the decisions of the Conclave.”

Varric whistled thinly through his teeth. “I’ve met your father,”

Evelyn grunted. “He’s a real piece of work.”

Varric grinned at her. “You said it, Lady.”

“Do I have a say in the nickname? Because ‘lady’ isn’t going to work.”

Varric shook his head. “Nope, no say. But I agree, you’re not the Lady type.”

Two steps farther, ad Evelyn encountered the first body. Or what she assumed was a body. It was a husk of sizzling ash in the shape of a tormented person. All distinguishing characteristics were gone; age, race, sex, class were all erased.

“Maker…” she breathed. “Oh I definitely need some time in the Chantry.”

“Now is not the time to jest,” Cassandra said sharply, turning to her. Something about the look in Evelyn’s eyes stalled the condemnation in her throat, and the Seeker merely stalked away.

The Breach was swirling directly overhead now, a superstorm of burning sulfur and magic.  They came around a curve in the wreckage and found the center of the crater. There seemed to be a bit more standing structures here in the middle, somehow. And directly below the center of the breach was an enormous rift.

Solas walked Evelyn right up to it. He decided it was closed, but not well – she would need to open the rift and then close it properly. She offered him her wrist again, and he politely declined. “You’re becoming quite adept already.”

“Stand ready,” Cassandra shouted, and what soldiers they had found and the scouts from the path took up strategic positions around the rift.

And then the voice started.

Evelyn was shocked still. She knew that voice, knew both of those voices. One was unmistakably the Divine Justinia, calling out in pain and fear. The other she could not put a name to, but she struggled to remember where she had heard it before.

Until she heard her own voice, and knew.

“That was your voice!” Cassandra raged at her. “Justinia called out to you for aid.”  
“I’m just as surprised as you are, Seeker,” Evelyn replied dryly. “But that explains why that was all sounding familiar.”

“That must have been when you were forced into the Fade,” Solas said. “This is where you emerged, is it not?”

Evelyn shrugged, deferring to Cassandra. The Seeker nodded.

“Being in the Fade would have saved you from the explosion,” Solas continued. “Although the travel in and out should have killed you on its own.”

“The first time in my life luck is on my side, and I ended up with insane magic buried in my hand. Figures.”

“Can we please attend to the matter at hand?” Cassandra called, standing ready at the rift.

Solas gestured for Evelyn to begin. Varric shrugged and loaded his crossbow.

None of them expected the Pride Demon to come through.

Solas quickly taught Evelyn to read the rift, and use her mark to send a pulse of energy through it, which would damage or even stun the demon. The fight took the very last of Evelyn’s stamina, and as the demon fell and she closed the rift, she felt herself falling.

Hard arms caught her, mere inches from the ground. “Nice job, Ginger.”

“Keep looking, Varric,”  she said, and the darkness took her.

 

*

 

She awoke in a bed that looked just like the one she had occupied in Haven before travelling up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes for the Conclave. For a moment, she wondered if it had all been a terrible dream; she immediately vowed to never drink Fereldan ale again. The stiffness in her left arm and the light glow of green inside her clenched palm quickly dashed her hopes.

“Still,” she said as she swung her feet off the bed, “no more dog men ale.”

The elf who was tidying up her room about keeled over in fright. Nothing Evelyn could say would reassure her, and eventually Evelyn just let the girl go with a sigh.

“Awake for five seconds and terrifying the help. New record.”

A quick search around the room found her with new daggers, a classy set of leather armor, and a log detailing the stages of her recovery. There was sunlight streaming in the window at a low angle, but without seeing the way the window was situated she couldn’t tell if it was morning or evening; she’d either slept a lot or she’d slept way too much.

The terrified elf had told her to report to Lady Cassandra in the Chantry, and Evelyn wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a joke or not. She vaguely remembered how Haven was laid out, and she was sure she could find the building at the top of the rise.

She opened her door to a spectacle.

There were dozens of people lining the walk in front of the hut she had occupied. They looked like they had been standing around for awhile, too; no one was winded or windblown. There was a murmur of conversation before and behind her, but everyone fell silent as she passed. _Herald_ , she heard whispered. _Sent by Andraste herself_.

A very bad sign.

The morning did not improve. It was verified that she had only slept for eighteen hours or so, but that was the only pleasant news she received. Roderick literally wanted her dead, Cassandra declared a reestablishment of the Inquisition, Leliana admitted to confiscating her lock picks, the camp was struggling to bring in basic supplies, and defending Haven against the Breach had utterly decimated the army that had been camped there to prevent any clashes between the mages and Templars the Conclave was meant to mediate.

The healer was an overworked alchemist, there were no horses in the stable, and the quartermaster was an unrepentant bitch.

Evelyn found Varric easily, hovering over a campfire not far from where she had woken up. He launched into a rant about the dangers of the strange rocks they’d found in the crater – he insisted they were a form of lyrium – and resolutely refused to stop calling her Ginger.

Evelyn buried her hands in her hair. It was reddish, yes. And perpetually shaggy, since she insisted on keeping it short but didn’t take the time to sheer it off evenly. Drawing attention to the mess was the last thing she wanted to have happen every time she visited Varric. She was sincerely fond of the dwarf, and was torn between avoiding him and getting over the dreadful nickname.

Solas resented her asking about him. The shop keeper was a con man. And it was finally certain that she was the only person inside the Temple of Sacred Ashes to survive.

The entirety of her delegation was gone. Her horse and everything she owned being lost was hard enough, but she had _friends_ in that Temple. More than friends.

She found herself sullenly throwing rocks against the surface of the frozen lake for nearly an hour. The elf who had been scared silly when Evelyn awoke that morning brought her a bowl of thick stew near noon, and Evelyn reached into her pocket for a coin to give her, of course finding none. She tried to smile her thanks, but the Elf had already buried her eyes in her feet and fled.

She had no money. No resources. No proof of her identity. No friends. And even if she could drum up some way to leave, she had nowhere to go. Running back to her father in disgrace was completely out of the question, if it was even feasible.

The morning was a complete wash.

The afternoon, however, was a different story.


	2. Haven: Councils and Drinks

The last four days were in the running for the worst of his life.

After Kinloch and Kirkwall, that was really saying something.

It had taken a good six hours after the explosion before anyone really knew what had happened. Rock slides had to be cleared, safe passage had to  be found, the causeway had to be reinforced. It was another two before they fought through the demons to the rift at the center of what used to the be the holiest site in Ferelden.

He had been at the rift when she’d fallen out. He’d missed the actual fall – he was wiping residue from the demon he’d just spitted from his sword blade when he heard the shout behind him. There was a woman on the ground, clothes so battered and filthy that her station was undistinguishable. Her hair was roughly shorn and filled with sulfuric soot. But the only thing his men saw were the woman who had appeared to throw her out of the rift, and the sickly glow of magic in her hand.

Cullen had to draw his sword on his own Lieutenant to keep the woman’s hide intact. Even if she was guilty, they needed answers: why she’d done it, how, and how could it be fixed. Vengeance could come later.

He saw to it that two of the more reasonable men-at-arms who’d happened to be in Haven while their charges attended the Conclave carried the unconscious woman back to Haven. He hadn’t heard another word about her until Leliana appeared in the ongoing battle for the Temple three days later. She yelled to Cullen something about the prisoner and a plan, some way to close the rifts the demons were pouring out of. It didn’t make sense, but it gave what few of his soldiers he had left some hope. Half a squad peeled off and followed Leliana up the mountain, dodging demons as best they could until they were out of Cullen’s sight.

But then the endless tide of demons slowed. They started to gain ground. They surged up the mountain, arriving at the crater again to see the woman draped over Varric’s shoulder, being once again carried off the mountain. The rift was closed, the Breach was quiet.

When he returned to Haven, the long process of finding and burying the dead had to begin. Cullen had to get some kind of count of the losses, not just in soldiers and civilians, but supplies and other resources that had simply vanished when the Temple exploded. The list of what had to be done never stopped growing.

But he hadn’t slept in three days, and once the adrenaline wore off he was facedown on his cot.

He awoke for good just before dawn, having been too tired for the nightmares to disturb him much. The woman who had fallen from the rift was being credited with closing them, and was apparently some Free Marcher nobility to boot. She was being set up in a hut just inside the gates; another draw on their diminished resources, another problem for the list.

That day there was nothing else being spoken of in camp. She had been everywhere that morning, it seemed. Everyone had spoken to her or been  nearby when she had spoken to someone else. She had even walked out to the old alchemist’s hut to fetch some forgotten papers for Adan. A woman swore she’d seen the Herald with a sack full of iron for Harritt’s smithy, and blessed her for finally doing something to shut up Threnn the Quartermaster.

The Herald of Andraste, she was being called. Nobody was calling her by name, if they even knew it. She had gone from the most hated criminal in Thedas to the chosen of Andraste herself between the sunset of one day and the sunrise of the next. No longer had she been cast out of the Fade; she had been sent. The woman seen in the rift behind her could only have been the Bride of the Maker, sending forth their salvation.

He was of half a mind to take Cassandra and Leliana to task over it when they sent for him after the noon meal. As the Left and Right Hands of the Divine, they knew better than to play so freely with Chantry doctrine. Cullen couldn’t say he really disagreed with Roderick’s outrage.

He strode into the war room and was handed a writ from Divine Justinia before he had a chance to speak. “We declared it, Cullen,” Leliana was saying. “Roderick was the first to hear. We did as the Divine asked, and waited until the Conclave was given its chance to work. It failed. The Inquisition is reborn.”

Cullen sighed and leaned against the map table. “The fighting will only be worse now. And we are in a worse position than ever to do anything about it.”

Josephine cleared her throat; Cullen had not noticed she was in the room. She had been recruited shortly before he was, and only by nature of geography. Cassandra was looking for Marian Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, to be the nominal head of the Inquisition, and when she collected Varric for questioning, she convinced Cullen to return home to Ferelden. Josephine had been in Orlais at the time, and was approached by Justinia herself.

“While I am sure that assessment is correct in terms of our forces, supplies, knowledge of key players involved and the Breach itself,” Ambassador Montilyet responded, “we do have one potentially invaluable resource that has presented itself.”

“Yes,” Leliana agreed, “the Herald. She has already created a complete reversal of morale.”

Cullen found himself shaking his head. “I cannot believe you are encouraging this, Sister Leliana.” He emphasized the title.

Cassandra startled them all with a grin. “You will understand when you meet her, Commander.”

Cullen shook his head. Josephine was creating a list of contacts they could reach out to for emergency aid, temporarily casting themselves in the role of protectors of the refugees from the Temple explosion. All of them were throwing out names when the door to the war room was pulled open.

She was still in rough shape, for sure. She had the pallor of a person in pain, and she favored her left arm strongly. The soot had been washed out of her dark auburn hair, but the uneven cut she wore it in seemed intentional. She was painfully thin, barely filling out the leather armor they had requisitioned for her, but the stance she slipped into when she realized they were all watching her told Cullen she was a fighter, and not some fragile maiden.

Cassandra drew her into the room. “May I introduce to you the Lady Evelyn Trevelyan, lately the Herald of Andraste.”

Cullen groaned to himself; Lord Trevelyan was a prick, and he had heard very little good of the man’s children.

The shy smile vanished from her face when Cassandra called her the Herald. The look of pure vitriol she directed at the Seeker instantly put her in Cullen’s good graces.

Cassandra was doing the introductions, however, and Cullen was suddenly aware of his own name being called. He bowed to the lady, and was pleased to see the smile return to her face. Josephine received an equally pleasant acknowledgement.

And then the fight started. That they needed to seal the Breach, everyone was agreed to. But Cassandra and Leliana seemed to believe the only option to do that was with mages. Cullen didn’t bear the fervent hatred of mages that stereotyped Templars – he had actually been on quite good terms with Hawke, after all – but throwing more magic at a giant swirling ball of magic did not seem like a rational solution. The Left and Right Hands seemed united against him.

“You are a Templar?” Evelyn asked when the argument lulled.

“I _was_ a Templar. I have recently resigned from the Order.”

Evelyn nodded. “Is anyone here a mage?”

The other three frowned at her. The question seemed too frivolous to deserve an answer.

“Right. So a Templar – former Templar, forgive me,” she paused while he nodded acceptance of  her apology, “says that a team of Templars could weaken the Breach and allow me to close it. Whereas mages amplifying the mark is just a theory?”

The twist to Cassandra’s mouth was all the answer she was going to get. “Look, I’m new to this. But if you have two options and one them is definitely going to work and the other is purely hypothetical, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of reason to argue about it.”

Cullen had to quickly turn his face to the floor to hide his grin.

“Regardless of the strength of _either_   theory,” Josephine said into the awkward silence, “we do not have the necessary influence to be received by either the rebel factions.” She detailed the information she had regarding Mother Giselle, somewhere near Redcliffe, and the importance of acquiring their first ally. “We can worry about our second and third allies later. We need to start with _one_.”

“We have no way to send _anyone_ to the Hinterlands,” Evelyn disagreed, surprising Cullen. He had been preparing to say the precise same thing. “There is iron everywhere here – once men are recovered from the fight at the Temple, we need to get as much iron dug and brought to Harritt as possible, so he can start the mountain of repairs and requisitions he has barricading him in the smithy. Adan is up to his elbows in injured, and would rather blow them up than patch them up. If we can get the wounded shifted into the care of whatever Chantry hands we have left, that would free him up to start working on alchemical supply lines… anything to get him away from actually dealing with people. The lake is frozen, but once Harritt has some iron to work with, we can make ice picks and encourage anyone with any free time to fish. A lot of people will turn their noses up, but if you have a dozen or so dedicated anglers, we’ll have a supply of fresh meat. The same goes for other wildlife; there are druffalo and rams on the slopes everywhere around here. We’ll need to trade for vegetables and grain, but a few dedicated hunters could get us the skins we need to make deals with whoever might have food up here.”

She looked up from the map of Haven she had been gesturing to and saw four astonished faces. She shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to barge in. But you can’t sit in here and argue while people are starving.”

The astonishment turned to varying degrees of shame on the women’s faces, but Cullen found himself grinning at her. The last thing he expected her to be was an ally.

“So, she’s just like Varric, you said?” Leliana snarked to Cassandra. “It must be something to do with the Free Marches, because she just quoted the Commander.”

Evelyn looked at him in surprise and quickly smiled to match his.

“Fine,” Cassandra said. “Let us go and get settled so that you can leave for the Hinterlands at the first opportunity.”  
“What, me?” Evelyn was saying as the Seeker guided her to the door. “Oh, no. No no no. You’ve got it all wrong. You don’t want me out there.”

“Mother Giselle specifically asked for _you_ , Herald,” Cassandra said, a bit smugly.

Evelyn made a sound that might have been a growl. “Fine,” she said as Cassandra swung open the door and they left the war room. “But don’t make me talk to Threnn again. The woman is a _bitch_.”

Cullen snorted as the door slammed closed. He could feel Leliana’s eyes on him, and knew she would read far more into his smile than he intended.

“You see?” She said, mildly. “We told you, you would understand when you met her.”

 

*

 

By evening of the next day, the title ‘Herald’ was slipping easily from Cullen’s tongue. Regardless of what had actually happened with the Fade rift and the explosion of the Conclave, Lady Trevelyan was definitely doing the work of the Maker’s Bride.

She slogged out to an abandoned logging stand and laid a trail back to Haven from it, and the timber quickly went to repairing shelters and building trebuchets to defend the camp. Elfroot started arriving by the bushel, as she and Adan taught a squad of lightly wounded soldiers how to find and collect the healing herb. She left a note in the tavern asking if anyone knew if there were fish in the lake, and quickly had two dozen men eager to trade their other duties for ice fishing. She and Varric left every afternoon and returned with game from the mountains. Some of the villagers of Haven volunteered to domesticate the wild sheep and druffalo, and soon the two rogues were leading back as many live animals as slain.

The Herald was feeding her people, clothing them, building them shelter and healing their souls. The volunteer fishermen, for sure, would sing her praises for the rest of their lives.

She tried to give over her hut in town to the sick and wounded, but no one would take it; the idea of the Herald of Andraste sleeping in a tent was blasphemous. The elf who had been assigned as her servant, a easily spooked girl named Aieyla, had her cot moved into the Herald’s little house once she overcame her fear of the noble. By the time Evelyn was readying to leave for the Hinterlands, Aieyla had taken the title of Personal Assistant, and was responsible for keeping track of the Herald’s schedule and general whereabouts. Cullen happened to pass their hut in the evening and heard them laughing about something that had happened in the alienage – strangely, it seemed to have been Evelyn’s story.

And, somehow, Chancellor Roderick was still calling for her head. Cullen could do very little to help Lady Trevelyan, as rebuilding his forces and trying to fortify the little village against the worst case scenario occupied his every waking moment. But Cullen made it a point to keep Roderick as far away from her as possible.

The Herald knew he was doing it, as well; when she approached, Cullen would shift to keep Roderick’s back in her direction. And, every time, she met his eyes with a smile and mouthed “Thank you.”

 

*

 

_Nightingale,_

_The roads are fucking terrible. There are road blocks and barricades everywhere from the idiots fighting. It took us three full days of hard riding to get to Harding’s camp. We set out for our scheduled rendezvous in the morning, right after this raven flies. Do not expect news tomorrow, but I will send word the next day regardless of outcome._

_Do not fucking call me Ginger_

 

Leliana read the message aloud in the war room when she received it. Cullen could actually hear the Herald’s voice saying the words. She seemed to be the perfect mix of informed nobility and jaded soldier. Cullen hadn’t seen her in the practice yard, but he was certain she could hold her own in a fight. Cassandra had said as much, although she had seemed unwilling to divulge anything about the Herald’s fighting style. Cullen hadn’t seen her carrying any weapons, either, but someone had told him she favored daggers.

“She is quite good,” Leliana was saying. “This would be worthless if intercepted, No locations, no definite distances. Only Harding’s name, but that is actually fairly common in Ferelden. And such language! No one would believe the Herald of Andraste wrote this.”

Cullen had found himself grinning through the entirety of the Herald’s message, and laughed openly at the closing. “We’ll have to ask Varric for another list of code names when they return.”

Josephine scowled. “Do not encourage him. He has been calling me _Ruffles_. It is very undignified.”

Cullen laughed again. “It could be worse. He’s been calling me Curly for years.”

 

_Nightingale,_

_Had pointed conversations with both of the trouble makers. Consider them grounded._

_Prime directive achieved, with far less trouble than expected._

_Anticipate multiple arrivals. All will carry identification._

_Still have yet to see a man about a horse. Hope for remedy tomorrow._

_Mimsy? What the shit is that? No._

The Herald’s correspondence had skipped a day as expected. Leliana had been laughing as she opened the tube from the raven, and Cullen had followed her into the war room with a growing sense of joy. Leliana’s estimate of the Herald’s impact on morale seemed too low by half, if only judging by the way Cullen felt when a dispatch arrived from the field.

“Both trouble makers?” Josephine was working to decrypt Evelyn’s message. “Do you think she means the Templars and the rebel mages?”

“I do, Josie,” Leliana replied. “We knew there were factions fighting near the crossroads; she would have needed to clear both groups out to ensure the safety of the refugees at the crossroads.”

“So she’s cleared the Hinterlands of mages and Templars?” Cullen clarified.

“I believe that is what she is saying, yes.”

“And the prime directive would be her meeting with Mother Giselle, of course,” Josephine said, making a note on the writing board.

“I believe so. I also think she has found other agents for the Inquisition, when she speaks of other arrivals.”

Cullen fought to contain his smile. “And the man about the horse? A base mention of horsemaster Dennett, surely.”

Leliana nodded. “Again, a message that would be nearly worthless if compromised. The Herald is a treasure.”

The “Identification” the arrivals carried was a slip of paper each, bearing one of the nicknames from the list Varric had left with Leliana to call the Herald by, scrawled in an angry hand.

 

_Nightingale,_

_Took a fucking fireball to the fucking face from a fucking dragon. Fuck you, fuck this, I’m done._

_Spent today pulling red lyrium shards out of Cassandra’s ass-armor after an argument in a mineshaft, literally over the dead body of some prick dwarf._

_I am so done._

_If it takes me three fucking days to get back through this fucking war, you owe me a drink._

_If you call me ‘Boss’ again, I will cut Varric, so help me_

Leliana opened the missive in the raven cote, and was crying from laughter when she reached the war room. “I do not think I will be able to read this out loud,” she said, and handed it to Josephine. The Ambassador flushed so deeply her face was purple; she wordlessly handed the missive on to Cullen.

Cullen also refrained from attempting to read the long string of profanity out loud.

“So we’ll see her in three days?” He asked once they’d all stopped laughing.

Leliana nodded. “And I’ll owe her a drink.”

It took Evelyn three days to ride back to Haven through the war-torn countryside.

Leliana bought the first round.

Cullen bought the second.

“No!” Evelyn protested as Cullen threw his coin to Flissa. “Leliana owed me one, but I owe you _two_ , you can’t add to my debt.”

Varric supported the Herald’s claim. “It is completely valid, Curly. You made sure she didn’t get torn to pieces when she fell out of the rift.”

Cullen waved a hand dismissively. “Bare human decency.”

“And I chose to take the mountain pass, rather than support your troops at the gates when we went to the Temple to seal the rift,” Evelyn said softly. She seemed almost ashamed.

“You chose?” Cullen looked askance at Leliana, who shrugged with a nod.

“I cast the deciding vote,” the Herald continued. “You lost more men than you absolutely had to, although the choice did save Leliana’s scouts. So between you saving me and me not saving you, I owe you two rounds. And now that I say it aloud, it is nowhere near sufficient.”

Cullen quickly agreed for the debt to be discharged in alcohol, sensing it could quickly become a much more solemn matter. “Unfortunately,” he said, trying to keep the reminder of men lost from ruining the evening, “it seems I have already handled this round. If we’re truly keeping score, my Lady, the tally is sadly now three.”

“Well, shit,” the Herald replied, bringing Varric to laughter. She waved Flissa over, and said in a voice loud enough for the entire tavern to hear: “I have wronged the Commander! He is a true gentleman, and is allowing me to discharge my debt in spirits.” Two of Cullen’s Lieutenants were seated nearby, and they raised a weak cheer for their Commander. Cullen found himself blushing without quite knowing why. “As I’m sure I’m going to continue to step on toes while we dig our asses out of this mess-“ a laugh from the gathering crowd, then “-I need you to keep a tab for me!”

She stood then onto her barstool, so she towered comically over the men and women pressing against her to hear. “Witnesses!” she said expansively through the cheering laughter. “I owe all these witnesses a drink! A round for the house!”

The cheer was thunderous. The Herald dug out a coin purse and threw it to Flissa as she climbed down from the stool. “I’m sure more people will come in when they hear I’m buying drinks,” she said in a lower tone, and the tavern keeper nodded her agreement of that assessment. “Everyone who comes in gets one. If you run out, let me know. I’m good for it.”

She looked back at her drinking companions – Leliana, Cullen, and Varric – and tilted her mug forward. They all mirrored the action, and they touched tankards in a brief salute before allowing the newly heightened energy level of the tavern swirl around them.

“She’s brilliant,” Cullen whispered to Leliana, who sat between him and the Herald. Evelyn was having a furious conversation with Varric about unacceptable nicknames, which seemed to be all of them. “Magic hands? Are you _insane_?”

Leliana smiled slyly at the Commander. “Simultaneously supporting your command, buying herself forgiveness for future mistakes, and buying every soldier a drink? Any ill will left over from the Conclave explosion is surely gone now.”

Flissa deposited four cordial glasses in front of them then, with a nod to the Herald. Leliana and Cullen both looked over at Evelyn, who raised the glass at Cullen. Cullen duly mimicked the gesture, and burst out laughing when Evelyn solemnly lifted up two fingers, mouthing “two left,” before they all tilted their drinks back. It was a thick honey liquor, far too sweet by half for Cullen’s taste, but Evelyn quickly called Flissa back over to find out precisely what it was.

Cullen and Leliana pushed back from their stools then, eager to be out of the crowd, though likely for different reasons. Evelyn protested, catching Cullen’s arm as he passed her on the way to the door.

“Stay,” she said, pitching her voice to cut through the crowd noise.

Something about it made Cullen’s neck burn, and he rubbed it roughly. “And let you discharge your debt in one sitting?”

She laughed, and he leaned forward, eager to hear the sound he’d caused. She swatted him on the shoulder, causing the fur of his mantle to ruffle, and waved her permission for his to leave. Varric shot him an amused glance as Cullen turned away that said the dwarf had a completely different idea about what had just transpired.

As Cullen made his way back to his tent, a stack of reports yet to finish before he could retire, it occurred to him that the Herald had also just laid down a perfectly acceptable reason for him to ask her to the tavern for a drink, preferably on a quieter night.

Brilliant, indeed.


	3. Haven: The Bear Vendetta

The spirits in Haven the next morning were higher than Cullen had yet seen them. Nearly half the camp seemed to have gotten a free drink on behalf of the Herald, and the other half were only annoyed they hadn’t heard of the event until after last call. Three of Cullen’s Lieutenants approached him with thanks, asking what the Herald had done to owe him. He answered them truthfully, feeling there was nothing but good will to be found in her reasoning. He was right; the ‘debts’ she owed the Commander were quickly circulated around the camp, and she was immediately the soldiers’ darling.

The new armor that started pouring out of Harritt’s shop that morning only pushed her popularity higher. A runner called Cullen to the war room an hour before noon, and he didn’t react as negatively as he would have a week before. Even if the meeting cost them all their noon meal, the war room wasn’t a losing battle for Cullen when the Herald was there.

In spite of the common tale circulating that she had stayed until last call to be sure everyone who wanted a drink with her could have it, she was bright-eyed and vibrant at the map table when Cullen entered.

Cassandra entered on Cullen’s heels, and she locked the door as Cullen joined Josephine and Leliana at the table.

“Good, we’re all here, so I can say this _once_ ,” the Herald started, looking embarrassed.

She threw a large bag on the table; it took her both hands and a bit of effort. It made a familiar metallic rattle as it settled, and Josephine’s jaw dropped. “How much gold is this?” the Ambassador gasped.

“A couple thousand, I think,” Evelyn replied with a shrug. She raised a hand to stop the stream of spluttered questions.

“I killed a lot of people in the Hinterlands, can we all think about that for a minute? The mages wouldn’t stand down, the Templars wouldn’t stand down, and it was either remove them or allow more innocents to die. I don’t regret the decision, but the simple truth is, there are a lot of corpses that I created.”

Josephine swallowed and fell silent. The other three were nonplussed; they had all seen war.

“The Templars particularly,” she shot Cullen a guilty glance, “seemed to have a lot of… spoils of war… on them. I did what I could to return what I found, but much of it was nondescript or belonged to people with no heirs. I took what I found to the crossroads, and tried to find owners. The shopkeeper there offered to buy everything off me, and I agreed with the caveat that if anyone had a valid claim on any merchandise, it would be returned to them free of cost and notice sent to me to return the coinage.”

The silence was deafening, and Evelyn shifted uncomfortably.

“Look, if you have something to say about it, say it now.”

Leliana quickly put a hand to her arm, surprising Cullen. He saw the emotion mirrored on Cassandra’s face. “The dead will be looted, whether by their foes or by vultures who later descend. That you returned _anything_ is more than most would expect. Your agreement with the shopkeeper was well done. I have no censure for you.”

Evelyn flushed scarlet. Cullen found it adorable, and was completely distracted when he realized how he was thinking about the Herald of Andraste.

“But how…” Josephine said, stopping and starting again. “How did you come up with so much coin in so few days?”

“She killed a _lot_ of people, Josephine,” Cassandra said darkly. “Both in the Hinterlands and in the journeys there and back.”

“And that’s not including the fade-touched wolves and the things left behind when demons imploded.” Evelyn added.

“Also,” she said a moment later, “that’s not _all_ the gold. It’s only what’s left after the, um, event, at the tavern last night.”

Cullen threw his head back with a roar of laughter, and Leliana sat down heavily on the side of the table with a tittering laugh behind one hand. Cassandra and Josephine had heard of the impromptu celebration that morning, and could only smile.

“A worthy expense, I am sure,” Josephine said primly. “If you are so successful in collecting coin in all your travels, buying drinks for the soldiery is the least of your concerns.”

“Speaking of which,” Evelyn said, seemingly eager to change the subject, “the reason I returned without Master Dennett.”

She outlined the needs of the farmers, indicating on a map where they needed watch towers built. Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine all had differing opinions on how that could be best accomplished, but Evelyn agreed with Cullen. Again.

“We have the soldiers, and they already have practice with masonry, what with the repairs they are making to Haven. I can travel with them, and oversee the locations of the towers. And when they return to Haven, they can bring back the rest of the supplies I’ve acquired and had to leave behind.”

“Other supplies…?” Josephine asked weakly.

“Leathers, cloths, metals, herbs. Some strange things that I was unsure of their usefulness, so I didn’t want to sell until I was sure we couldn’t use it. Like demon blood; I came up with an awful lot of demon blood. Varric said it has uses.”

“Oh, and there’s this,” she said, and reached under the table for what appeared to be an unbound book; dozens of pages of thick paper held together between two thin boards and lashed with leather. “They’re schematics for weapons and armor that I still need to deliver to Harritt.”

Cassandra was leaning against the wall, looking smugly at the rest of the advisors. Leliana’s expression clearly showed she was considering a range of new options. Josephine was similarly adjusting her ideas about the missions they sent the Herald on. And Cullen was feeling strangely …proud. Although he couldn’t put his finger on why he should get any feelings of personal pride out of the actions of the Herald.”

“Oh, Andraste’s flaming sword, _one_ of you say _something_.”

Cassandra barked a laugh, one of the first Cullen had heard from her. “You have rendered them mute, Evelyn,” and Cullen was flatly astonished to hear her use the Herald’s first name.

“Bah,” Evelyn said, dismissing them all with a wave and a turn to the door. “Noon. Food. I’m still trying to catch up from three days of being unconscious.”

The idea of war council lasting only an hour was a novelty that threatened to overwhelm Cullen. Everything he had written off as impossible to accomplish suddenly flooded back onto his plate, and he quickly followed the Herald out the door, eager to return to his duties.

Some hours later, Cullen was standing near the doors of the Chantry, intercepting messengers as they left Leliana and repurposing them for his own work. If Leliana hadn’t sent them away with anything to do, she rarely minded Cullen’s interference, and it saved him from continually interrupting the work of his own soldiers.

Evelyn appeared by his elbow, and he fought to hide his startle. He had not seen her coming, which was impressive considering there was nothing blocking the view around him for a dozen paces at least.

But before he could collect himself, she’s getting his permission to ask personal questions, and he’s stammering out where he grew up and – Maker’s breath – an explanation of the content of a Templar’s vows. With particular focus on chastity. If he was blushing any harder, he would be on fire. Luckily, the Herald – who was also asking him to call her by her given name, a request he had no qualms politely refusing – seemed as discomfited as him, and when they found an end to the conversation she turned away in what can only be described as open flight.

Cullen couldn’t help but wonder if the Herald had meant the conversation as a flirtation, or a series of innocent questions that had gotten away from her. And Maker knows he hadn’t needed to answer them! He found himself glad she had conducted the conversation in the open, where he was absolutely sure nothing had been overheard.

The redness on his face took far longer to fade than he would have liked, and several of the messengers and Lieutenants he had dealings with were more open with their curiosity than he would have liked.

The Herald was leaving for her return trip to the Hinterlands the next morning, and Cullen couldn’t decide whether he was glad to see her go.

 

*

 

The troops he deployed to build the watch towers returned in three weeks with what looked like the spoils of war. Dennett was with them, with the horses the Inquisition desperately needed… the horsemaster himself was a surprising but welcome addition to their forces. The horses were helping to draw a long chain of carts, heavily laden with supplies the Herald had acquired. She had found another abandoned logging stand, it seemed, as well as stacks of pelts and the carefully cured carcasses of wildlife. There was a small fortune in elfroot and iron, and dozens of crates marked ‘deliver to Minaeve.’

“Is there anything left in the Hinterlands?” one of Cullen’s Lieutenants, Killeen, asked in awe as the caravan rolled into Haven. Dennett, striding up to Cullen to introduce himself, heard her and laughed bitterly. “There is more than enough there for the few survivors left. The Herald left an equal amount of goods with the refugees in the crossroads.”

Cullen felt his heart swell with pride. For the first time since the Conclave, the Inquisition seemed to actually have a hope to succeed, and it was all on the back of the lady Evelyn Trevelyan.

“That the Herald convinced you to join us is a welcome surprise,” Cullen said, greeting Dennett. As they discussed adequate pasturage and stabling for his horses, Dennett indicated that the Herald was embroiled in a battle against marauding bears in the southwest portion of the region, and would likely return upon a mountain of bear pelts. “It seemed almost like a grudge by the time we left,” he said with a laugh and a shake of his head. “She’s something else.”

As Cullen respectfully agreed, Dennett seemed to remember something. “She asked me to talked to a girl named Flissa for her, and you tell you afterward; she says you owe her a drink. Something about not warning her about the bears. She is a rare breed, let me tell you. Immediately knows whether to talk to a man like a noble or a soldier. Put everyone she met right to ease. Women like that are dangerous, son. Lead you right into the fire and you’ll grin as you burn.”

Cullen couldn’t find a way to disagree with the grizzled horse master.

Leliana had received word from Evelyn that morning, the first such missive in nearly a week. It covered the front and back of the tiny slips of paper they cut to fit the raven’s message tubes.

 

_Nightingale,_

_We’ve been ranging to the south and west for many days, and only just got near enough a raven to send word. I hope this reaches you before our guests, else I apologize for the surprise and hope you are not caught ill prepared for their arrival. They’re the type to take up a lot of space._

_Please tell Harding that she could have fucking warned me about the fucking bears. They have been launching into our camp as if there’s a fucking bear trebuchet somewhere. I could have had my feet in front of a nice fire two fucking weeks ago if I wasn’t constantly pulling bear claws out of my fucking ass. I’m going to have enough fucking bear skins to make every one of us a cloak like the Commander’s. If he doesn’t want to be the prototype for a new fashion craze he’d better buy me a fucking drink._

_Varric said I should sign this ‘Limey’ and I told him to die in a fire. We’ve got to get me a decent sign-off._

 

Leliana handed it wordlessly to Cullen to read, and he felt his face split into a wide grin. “Dennett already sent word to Flissa, I will happily pay the lady’s price.”

Leliana quirked an eyebrow at him. “That is your only takeaway from the missive?”

Cullen frowned at her implication. “Would you rather I focus on building a bear trebuchet?”

Leliana laughed again, a happy trill that quickly vanished. “Point taken. I will warn Master Harritt of the impending influx of bear skins.”

Evelyn rolled into camp five days later, with a cart full of a veritable mountain of bear skins. Josephine was casually inspecting them when she dropped her writing board. “Herald! My Lady Trevelyan! These are not just bears. These are Orlesian Great Bears.”

The Herald made a reply that only Josephine heard, but the Ambassador’s shocked gasp faded quickly into shocked laughter. The Herald bowed to her in apology and made a beeline for her hut. Aieyla was waiting at the door, practically bouncing on her feet with happiness. Cullen was watching it all from his usual post at the Chantry door, and wished he was close enough to hear what the Herald was saying. He was astonished when the previously tremulous elf threw herself into the Herald’s arms in welcome. Trevelyan lifted her gently off her feet in an answering hug, and ruffled her hair familiarly. The elf beamed at her, and eagerly started shuffling through the papers that had accumulated in the Herald’s month-long absence.

Cullen watched in growing astonishment as the Herald took the papers away from the girl and set them on the floor inside the hut and shut the door. She took the elf’s hand and pulled her toward the cart holding all the bear pelts. As they neared the cart, Aieyla froze, breaking free of Evelyn’s hand.

The Herald looked back at her, and then gradually drifted to the side. Aieyla took a slow step, then a second, and then she was running towards the cart. The cart driver – another elf, Cullen could tell from stature at this distance, but nothing else about the person – leapt down from his seat and met her halfway, pulling her into his arms.

Evelyn was quickly vanishing into her hut, although she left the door open behind her. The reunited elves were making quite the scene at the gate.

“All she had was a name,” Cassandra said suddenly at Cullen’s shoulder. He glanced at her, and then turned his attention back to the slowly growing crowd at the gates. “They were separated at the Alienage in Val Royeaux when the civil war broke out. Aieyla – the Herald’s Personal Assistant,” she said the title with no irony, where it had been a running joke in the camp when Aieyla first started using it, “knew Mahvrin had been taken east, but had no idea where. That was all the Herald was working with. I still don’t know how she put all the pieces together, but she strode right up him in a refugee camp against the walls of Redcliffe and offered him a place in the Inquisition.”

Aieyla and the new elf – Mahvrin, Cassandra had said – pulled apart as Aieyla looked around for Evelyn. Seeing the door open, she pulled Mahvrin over to the hut she shared with the Herald. Evelyn appeared at the door with a bundle on her back and a stack of papers in her arms. Aieyla threw herself into the taller woman’s arms, and the papers fluttered to the ground as Evelyn was knocked prone, laughing. Mahvrin immediately started picking them up, but Evelyn stopped him. She pulled Aieyla off the ground, and gently pushed the two elves into the hut and shut the door behind them. Collecting the scattered papers herself, she trudged uphill to where Cassandra and Cullen stood watching her.

“It seems, Commander,” she said without preamble as she came within earshot, “that I have finally found someone else to occupy the cottage you so kindly loaned me. I would like to requisition a tent.”

In that moment, he would have given her anything.

So the Herald of Andraste ended up in a plain tent in line with Leliana, Cullen, and Cassandra near the chantry doors. Josephine had, in a near panic, immediately offered up her office suite inside the Chantry, but the Herald refused easily. “You are always here, and must always be ready to welcome whoever I send back, Ambassador. With how infrequently it appears I will actually be _in_ camp, it is ridiculous to give me anything less temporary than the tents with our soldiers.”

Partially because of the way their tents had previously been arranged, but also for the sake of security, Evelyn was sandwiched between Cassandra and Cullen. She arranged the tent so her cot was on the side of the tent nearer Cassandra, and her desk was positioned so she would be facing the tent flap on the side nearer Cullen. He couldn’t help but wonder at the coincidence that put her desk in the mirrored spot as his own, merely a few paces away.

It was three days before he felt comfortable hearing the scratching of her quill in the evenings, as he sat at his own desk and tried to write as quietly as possible. The Herald was biding her time, waiting for Mother Giselle to arrange for the meeting in Val Royeaux, and expected to hear from her any day now, at which point she and Cassandra would leave on a moment’s notice.

The morning the bird arrived from Val Royeaux was the same day a bird arrived from the Fallow Mire.

“What do you mean we had soldiers _captured_   in a _swamp_?”

“My lady Herald,” Cullen responded evenly, “I mean we had a contingent of soldiers go missing from a patrol and we have received word that they are alive, but being held hostage. You are personally requested to negotiate their release.”

“What were they doing that far south?”

“I don’t know, my lady Herald,” he said mildly, feeling his temper starting to fray. “Routine patrols on the southern end of the Hinterlands could have been intercepted and relocated.”

“How long do we have to negotiate.”

“I don’t yet know.”

“Andraste’s boiling eyeballs, Cullen,” she swore viciously, causing Josephine to gasp. “I am leaving for Val Royeaux in the morning. Are our men going to be fucking dead by the time I get into that fucking bog or not?”

Cullen gritted his teeth. “I am sorry, my lady Herald, I do not know.”

In an action completely unexpected given her diminutive stature, Evelyn caught the map table edge and upturned it with a roar of frustration. Cullen and Josephine had to scramble to get out of the way, Cullen catching the Ambassador to steady her. He set Josephine on her feet and turned to call the _Herald_ to task but Evelyn was already storming out of the war room. Cassandra charged after her, but Leliana caught her arm. “Wait, Cassandra. Let me.”

Leliana patted the Seeker’s arm as she brushed past, striding gracefully after the retreating Herald.

Cullen didn’t see either of them for the rest of the day. It was many hours past dark when he heard the Herald enter her tent, and tiredly ask Aieyla to come back in the morning with whatever needed attended to. He heard her drop wearily into her chair, and then a soft _thump_ that might have been her head landing on the desktop.

“Commander?” her voice carried softly over from her tent.

Cullen sighed. She had surely seen his lamp lit, there was no benefit in dissembling. “Yes, Herald?”

She sighed at the title, and he remembered the look she shot at Cassandra the first time he met her. He imagined that look aimed at him now, and he couldn’t help the smile.

“I apologize for earlier, in the war room. I was not mad at you. I am afraid for the lives of those men.”

“As am I, my lady Herald,” he said gently.

She did not reply.

She spent all morning tying up loose ends with Aieyla, and strode out of her tent for the first time a few hours before noon. Cassandra was impatient to be off; Varric and Solas less so.

Varric whistled thinly through his teeth as the Herald approached them, causing Cullen to glance up from the Lieutenant he was receiving a report from. Evelyn appeared to have been beaten within an inch of her life. Every bit of exposed skin (not that there was much) below her face was mottled and purple. She walked as if every joint ached.

“Andraste’s ass,” Varric was saying, “what the hell happened to you?”

Evelyn shrugged, stiffly. “I had some aggression to work out.”

“And how did you do that? By head butting a druffalo?”

She made a frustrated sound in her throat. “You think whatever you want, Varric.”

The four of them moved to depart, and Cullen silently watched them go.

He decided not to ask Leliana what had happened between her and the Herald, but the resolution was futile. Leliana had left before daybreak, Josephine dutifully informed him, on a mission too sensitive to disclose. Leliana had insisted it would not impact the Inquisition, and that she would return before the Herald could get back from Val Royeaux.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first play through, the bears in the SW corner of the Hinterlands ran train on my party for easily an hour. They spawned faster than I could kill them, and I was swearing up a storm (much to my husband's amusement). I imagined my Inquisitor writing an irate letter to Haven about the bears.... and thus began this entire work.   
> Also, my husband totally wants to build a bear trebuchet.


	4. Haven: Confidante

They fell into a cycle then, the war council of the Inquisition. Evelyn and Cassandra would go afield for days or weeks, while Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana would work from Haven. While the Herald was gone, inevitable carts of supplies would arrive in her wake. It was becoming common for people to arrive, also, agents for either the Herald or some member of the council. The Herald would return, see to it that everything she had added to Haven was well settled, and then set out again with as little turn-around as possible. Her biggest delay was usually waiting for a new grip for her left-hand dagger; the mark damaged them quickly, and she carried multiple daggers for when the grip corroded before she could return to Haven.

Vivienne arrived before Evelyn had sent word that she had left Val Royeaux. Sera rode into camp with Varric and Evelyn, and the three seemed to have perfected an antagonistic friendship while on the road. Blackwall arrived on his own in the middle of the night and settled next to the smithy before anyone but Leliana knew he was there.

The kidnapped soldiers returned within the week of Evelyn setting out to free them, although it was another five days before she returned herself, having stayed to clear the bogs of undead.

Her trip to the Storm Coast spawned a new series of profanity-laced missives; the ones she had been sending from the Orlesian Capital and the Fallow Mire had been relatively tame and brief. But the Storm Coast was infuriating.

 

_Nightingale,_

_Did you know it rains 300 days out of the year here? And when it isn’t raining, the sheer amount of sea spray in the air makes it_ seem _like it is raining, so it is actually safe to say it rains every fucking day. This is why Ferelden fucking smells like wet dog. I’m sending Leliana the only thing of worth I scraped up down here; get Josie to start getting money together._

_We got stuck in a fucking cave for six fucking hours today while a dragon and a giant fought on the beach. Can you even picture that? That is the kind of fucked up shit I’m slogging through here. Its fucking ridiculous._

_The missing scouts are lost; notify next of kin. And be nice to Harding when you tell her._

_If I’m not back by this time next week I’ve fucking drowned, don’t bother looking for me._

_Tell Varric that if he can’t do any better than ‘Buster’ I’ll know why his books don’t sell_

 

“She seems sad,” Josephine said, half to herself. Cullen notified Harding personally of the lost scouts, and spent the rest of the day with her working on the next of kin notifications. The Commander handed her off to Varric, who had wisely stayed behind when he’d heard the destination was the Storm Coast, to cart her off to the tavern to help distract her from the news.

The “only thing of worth” turned out to be Iron Bull and his Chargers. The numerous carts of herbs and ore gave truth to the lie, but Bull quickly proved his worth as a commander of troops, and subtly pitched in on the training ground.

The Herald was in low spirits when she finally returned; Aieyla spent four days airing the mildew out of Evelyn’s pack.

The war council the morning after she arrived was one none of them were excited to partake in.

“Alright,” Evelyn said wearily as the doors closed and they all settled in. “Do we have the clout needed to pull in some help to finally close that swirling doomcloud?”

Josephine asserted that yes, there was a high likelihood that offers made to meet with either rebel faction would be met favorably.

“Okay. Mages or Templars. Final arguments. And we all know that aligning with one will completely alienate the other. We pick one and get the Breach closed and then start mending fences afterward.”

“The time travel we think Alexius is toying with a serious concern,” Leliana said. “I believe it may be beneficial to enlist the mages for the threefold reasons of assistance with the Breach, freeing them from the Magisterium, and eliminating what may be very serious magic.”

Cassandra nodded at Leliana. “Lady Vivienne assures me that mages would be able to increase the power of the mark and a dedicated group could seal the breach.”

“However,” Josephine added primly, “it should be noted that Lady Vivienne also stated we would be better suited to approach the Templars. The respectability and authority of the Inquisition would be bolstered by the Order, far more so than by drawing in the mages who rebelled.”

Evelyn’s eyes swung to Cullen, and he tried to control his mounting frustration. “Lord Seeker Lucius abandoning Val Royeaux is highly suspect. I hesitate to draw the comparison, but it is the sort of personality shift I witnessed with Knight Commander Meredith in Kirkwall. Approaching the Templars would give us the assistance we need to contain the Breach, and would do much to stop the war with the mages if we could remove the more rebellious elements and refocus the rest. From a more cynical standpoint, if allying with one faction alienates the other to the point of an escalation of hostilities, the Inquisition would be better served by having Templars to defend against mages, and not the reverse.”

“So we are still divided?” the Herald asked when he finished.

“It appears so, Herald,” Josephine answered.

The Herald sighed. “So you leave it to me. Again.”

“It is most fitting that you make the decision, Lady Trevelyan, as you will be the person who must carry out the meeting and subsequent negotiations. You will be a poor negotiator if you do not agree with the course of action.”

“Yes, thank you, Ambassador. You are of course right.” She sighed again and stared at the table. Slowly her left hand rose, and she regarded the mark in  her palm; Cullen had rarely chanced to see it. It truly did appear to be an open wound, glowing with green fire rather than gore. It pulsed as they all watched, and Evelyn scarcely flinched; not because it didn’t hurt, but because she had grown accustomed to the searing pain.

“I will approach the Templars,” she announced at last. “Lady Montilyet, please work your magic and make whatever arrangements I may need. We will meet again tomorrow and establish a firm timeline.” And she strode from the room without another word.

The four of them left around the table stared at each other in silence. They had fought over this decision for so long, it was an odd feeling to have it finally resolved. Josephine was he next to leave, telling Leliana she would have need of ravens before the hour was out. Cassandra nodded grimly at Cullen and then left the Commander and the Spymaster alone.

“We must formalize it, when she returns,” Leliana said softly.

Cullen knew what she referred to. The Herald needed to be named their Inquisitor, needed to have her leadership formalized. She had long since stopped being a figurehead.

“She will refuse,” he replied. “If we manage to seal the Breach, then it may happen. But while the Breach remains in the sky, she will not stop for ceremony.”

“You are likely right,” Leliana replied. “After the Breach, then.” And she calmly left.

Cullen had expected this council to last far longer; for the decision to be slower and the planning to begin at once. He had cleared his schedule for it. As he left the Chantry, his feet carried him to where he knew the Herald would be.

Sera was just rising from the barstool next to Evelyn as Cullen walked in. “You’re up, chief,” the odd elf said to him. “She won’t have nothing to do with me.”

“I think, my Lady,” he said calmly as he took the stool next to the Herald, noting the strain in  her eyes, “that you still owe me a drink.”

She laughed, more an amused exhale than anything else. “Two,” she replied, “and you owe me one from the damned bears.” She raised a finger for Flissa. “What will you have, Commander?”

“Anything but the candy you have her pour in your cup. I don’t know how you can stomach it.”

She laughed again, more of a chuckle this time. “I made a solemn vow to never drink Fereldan ale for the rest of my life.”

“I will take your share, then,” he said as Flissa nodded and fetched him a tankard. “Dare I ask how our beer offended you?”

She shook her head with a smile, and Cullen was thrilled to see her start to relax.

“When I woke up in the dungeon,” she shot him a sideways glance, “not for the first time, I must admit.” He managed to keep his surprise limited to a raised eyebrow; he couldn’t imagine what would land a nobleman’s daughter in jail. “...with no memory of where I was, much less how I got there or who I’d pissed off, I decided the only logical solution was too much Fereldan ale, and I haven’t touched it since.”

“I must admit I doubt your story, my Lady,” Cullen answered, fighting to keep his tone mild. He was trying to calm her down, not piss her off. “Not the blame assigned to our fine brew, but rather that you had been incarcerated before.”

She snorted into her glass. “I would say I’ve got stories that would curl your hair, but….”

Cullen laughed helplessly. “It isn’t much of a threat, with me.”

“I always forget you are from Ferelden,” she said. “You spent enough time in Kirkwall that you’re very much a ‘Marcher.”

“I will take that as a compliment, my lady,” he replied with a raise of his tankard. She mirrored the action, and they lightly touched glasses. “To ‘Marchers, then,” she said, and they both drank.

They sat in silence for awhile, and Cullen found himself enjoying the company. Sera gave him a thumbs up from across the room, and he waved her off with a smile.   
“I would like for us to be friends, Commander,” she said softly into her cup. “You don’t treat me like some ineffable religious icon, and I appreciate that more than you know.”

“It is hard to see you as particularly holy, when I regularly read your missives from the field.”

She flushed scarlet then, and seemed mortified until she looked over and saw him laughing. “I never thought Leliana would share the whole message.”

“Oh, she does. You have shocked five years off Josephine’s life.”

She covered her face with her right hand and laughed helplessly. “No! I will have to do something nice for her to make up for it. She must think me a barbarian.”

Cullen shrugged, and Evelyn wailed comically. “Alright, no more profanity in the field reports. I will do right by Josie.”

Cullen smiled to hear her use Leliana’s nickname for the Ambassador. “I would like that. Your friendship, I mean.”

She smiled at him, and he realized her eyes were a piercing kind of green; he wondered if they always had been, or if the magic of the mark on her hand had affected her in more ways than just the obvious.

“I don’t want you to think that a desire for your friendship was why I chose to approach the Templars.”

Cullen took another slow swallow from his tankard, dragging out the single drink as much as possible. He considered and rejected several replies before finally saying, “So tell me your reasons.”

She glanced around the bar self-consciously, but no one was in a position to overhear. Evelyn’s owing Cullen drinks at the tavern was so widely known as to make their sitting at the bar together unremarkable.

“It hurts,” she said finally, gesturing vaguely with her left hand. “When I closed the rift at the Temple, the backlash nearly dislocated my shoulder. Having Templars dampen the Breach sounds a shitload less painful than channeling even more magic though this thing. I want to have an arm left at the end of it all.”

It hadn’t occurred to him, or likely to any of the council, that closing the Breach might damage the Herald. “I’m so sorry, my Lady. I’m embarrassed to admit that I did not realize the mark caused you such pain.”

She shrugged, uncomfortable and self-conscious. “I don’t want to make a big deal out of it."

“And then there’s Varric. He has this vendetta against red lyrium, but the more I see it the more I agree with him. If there’s something going on with the Templars here like what happened in Kirkwall, I owe it to him to see it through.”

Cullen nodded, although he didn’t want to consider Lucius actually under the influence of red lyrium. “We should keep that suspicion to ourselves, though, in case it proves untrue.”

“I agree,” she said, and they tipped their drinks at one another again in concurrence.

“But here’s the worst of it, Commander,” she said, voice dropping even lower. “I don’t mind mages. But waking up with magic attached to her hand doesn’t encourage a girl to go seeking out more. If something goes wrong with the mark, I would rather have Templars around to nullify it than risk being surrounded by mages who want to wait and see what happens in the name of academic pursuits.”

Cullen suddenly acutely regretted his decision to quit taking lyrium. If the negotiations with the Templar Order fell through, there might not be anyone else capable of containing the mark on the Herald’s hand. She didn’t seem to notice his sudden reticence, however, and continued with a smile. “Of course, the rest of the points you made were very convincing as well. I wouldn’t want you to think I didn’t listen to what everyone had to say.”

“No, of course not,” he said in a rush.

“But, from a purely academic standpoint,” he said, and she pushed him in the shoulder as she laughed. It was the second time she had touched him in a companionable way, both times happening at this very spot in the tavern. He was overwhelmingly fond of these bar stools now. “…does Solas have anything to say regarding the mark putting you in danger?”

She snorted. “He has almost nothing to say, aside from he is convinced it is perfectly contained and will do me no harm. He also says closing the Breach might decrease the amount of pain I feel, but won’t otherwise alter the mark.”

“Closing the Breach won’t destroy it?” Cullen was surprised.

“No, apparently not. Some third object or magic is involved – something that opened the Breach, _and_ blew up the Conclave, _and_   stuck this mark on my hand. But we can worry about that once the Breach is closed.”

Cullen was perfectly content to worry about it now.

 

*

 

Cullen doubted anyone else would recognize the look in Evelyn’s eyes when she returned to Haven at the head of a long column of Templars, but for him it was unmistakable. She disappeared into the Chantry shortly after she arrived. When Cullen went looking for Josephine that evening, he was surprised to see Evelyn huddled at the foot of the shrine to Andraste, Mother Giselle hovering nearby; while she often joked about needing some time spent in prayer, he had never known her to actually do it.

“…she shall know the peace of the Maker’s benediction. The light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next. For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, She should see fire and go towards Light. The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.”

His visit with Josephine was prolonged by the minor Orlesian noble who was with the Ambassador when Cullen arrived. When he passed back through the Chantry, he was astonished to find Evelyn still there, unmoved. Mother Giselle was no longer chanting with her, but standing aside and watching, tears in her eyes.

“O Maker, hear my cry; guide me through the blackest nights. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked. Make me to rest in the warmest places.”

She was working through Transfigurations. Cullen knew it well; while most assumed it was for last rites, anyone who had fought against demonic possession could find deeper meaning there.

Rather than confront her about it, he took Aieyla aside and asked if he could schedule a meeting with the Herald, in private, to discuss some aspects of the Templar Order. Aieyla promptly gave him a two-hour window the next morning, and Cullen spent his few free moments sweeping his own schedule clear.

He scratched at her tent flap at the appointed time, and Aieyla kindly whisked him in, before posting herself just outside with her newlywed husband, Mahvrin. He had proven fiercely loyal, and had taken on the role of Evelyn’s steward, freeing his wife from the more mundane duties to focus on scheduling and correspondence for the Herald. They immediately started a low conversation to help block any passers-by from overhearing the Herald’s conversation. Cullen had to admit they were really quite good at their jobs.

“Commander, this is a surprise,” Evelyn said by way of greeting. She had three chairs in her tent, so Mahvrin and Aieyla had someplace to sit; Cullen was again struck by how very different this Trevelyan was from her father.

“I believe there is something you have yet to speak of from your acquisition of the Templars, my lady Herald. You must forgive me, but I would be remiss not to mention it.”

She went very still, which was all the confirmation Cullen needed. “I have seen that expression in your eyes in my mirror, my lady. Whether or not the demon you encountered was defeated as quickly as you say, any altercation like the one you had damages you. I only mention this as your friend, as you have asked me to be. I know what demons can show you, how they can twist your truths into falsehoods and use your fondest memories as fuel for nightmares. And if you need to discuss any of it, I am willing to listen.”

She folded her hands in her lap and bowed her head, her shoulders bobbing slowly as she breathed deeply.

“I do not want to speak of this in the war council, but I know I must,” she began softly. Cullen leaned forward to hear.

She slowly outlined the trial Envy had put her through, the demon sifting through her memories to try to know her, all while trying to kill her inside her own mind. There were times her voice faltered, as if certain scenes were too painful to speak of, and Cullen reached out to lightly touch her arm and encourage her to skip over it. She would have the rest of her life to come to grips with what she’d seen.

“You don’t have to tell the war council everything,” he said when she had finished. “They should like to know precisely how you defeated Envy, and it would be an injustice to Cole not to explain how he helped. Speaking of it would allow them to trust him as you do. But the specifics are not necessary.”

“Thank you, Commander,” she said, laying a hand to his forearm with a sad smile. “I do feel better, having spoken of it.”

He smiled back at her, and they sat comfortably in silence for a long time.   
“So, Commander,” she said, glancing at the candle marking time on her desk, “I find you have 30 minutes left of your appointment. How would you care to spend it?”

Cullen had the very unusual sensation that she was flirting with him again. It was as if she had been too sincere for too long, and had to do something to deflect the conversation away. Cullen was uncertain of his read of her, though, and ended up rubbing the back of neck uncomfortably while he sought an answer. She had just spent more than an hour talking about her life and the people from her past as she described how Envy had twisted her memories; asking her to talk about anything from before the Inquisition seemed cruel.

“How did you find Mahvrin?” he asked, indicating the elf who stood guard at their door.  
“Oh! So you come in search of secrets, I see,” she laughed, and Cullen blushed helplessly.

She waved a hand dismissively. “Leliana helped, of course. Aieyla had mentioned the merchant they had worked for in Orlais; I simply asked Leliana to find him. He had last been seen in Redcliffe, so I kept my eyes peeled for elves. Aieyla had described him and the merchant to me, and I obviously knew his name. So when I saw two men matching the description, I knew I had found him.” She shrugged. “It wasn’t as hard as Aieyla makes it out to be. And honestly I was sick of the special treatment. There was no reason for that glorified hut to sit empty for weeks at a time.”

“What happened to the merchant?” Cullen asked, deciding it was the least invasive question.

Evelyn’s eyes darkened. “He refused to release Mahvrin from his service. He was completely unreasonable when I tried to negotiate with him; said the only thing he would take in exchange for one knife-ear was another.”

The slur was jarring in her voice. Cullen allowed himself to feel shocked.

Evelyn shrugged. “I almost wish I would have known Sera then, she would have loved it. I asked him if there was anything else I could do to change his mind, and he said no. So I tied him up and dragged him back to the crossroads, kicking and screaming. I gave all of his goods to the shopkeeper I had met there – and it turns out a great many of the things in his pack belonged to one or the other of the refugees. There were a number of elves living there, and between all the stolen goods and the bigotry, the people formed a mob pretty quickly. I asked him again if he could be persuaded to release Mahvrin, and he said he would give him to me in exchange for protection. I agreed, and Mahvrin walked away clean. I asked the townspeople not to kill him without a fair trial, and left him there. He was furious, but he wasn’t very specific about the kind of protection he wanted… and I bought him another few days of life at least. The last word I got was that he was indentured to the shopkeeper there as a way to pay off the debts he owed everyone he stole from.”

“Sera would have just put an arrow in him,” Cullen said with a laugh.

Evelyn nodded. “And I would have let her. But I didn’t feel like it was my place. I grew up surrounded by elves in servitude. It would be hypocrisy for me to kill a man for my own sin.”

Cullen had no reply that she would have wanted to hear, but his heart swelled a bit as he looked at his Herald.

Aieyla scratched at the door. “Time for the council, Evelyn,” she called at the door. The use of her given name warmed his heart even more.

The Herald of Andraste waved for Cullen to accompany her. “Planning now. Breach next. Then we get Inquisitive about who killed the Divine.”


	5. Haven: Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one - this finishes what I consider to be the introduction. And these cut scenes in game are my favorite, ever.

It was almost painfully simple, when it was all said and done. One full battalion of Templars, one small fortune in lyrium, and one magical explosion was all it took. The Breach snapped closed, leaving an angry twisting scar across the sky. Cullen stayed in Haven, as far away from the prepared lyrium as possible. It would take forever for it all to leave his system; the vestiges flowing in his blood stream tingled and surged as the Templars dampened the breach, even from this far away. He gripped his sword hilt with both hands until the muscles of his hands spasmed, but didn’t tear his eyes away from the mountain until he saw the Herald returning under her own power.

The sheer power involved had shaken him; he couldn’t imagine what it might have been like to have amplified her mark rather than dampen the Breach. It may have been the first time he had seen the Herald show any concern for her own well-being, but he was endlessly grateful that she had.

But then the celebration began, and the barrels of ale Evelyn had secretly shipped to Haven were produced and broached in quick succession. Cullen was on his way up to where she was standing with Cassandra to tease her that this would not count against that last drink she owed him when one of Leliana’s scouts came to him at a dead run with terror in her eyes. An army, a horde, descending upon them through the mountains. Bearing no banner, claiming no allegiance.

A stranger at the gate brought the Herald to her knees. “Dorian,” she breathed. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to warn you,” he said, in the cocky accent of Tevinter. “Fashionably late, I suppose. Care to let me in?”

“You know this man?” Cullen hissed as they pulled him through the gates.

“Know?” Dorian fluttered his eyelashes at the Commander. “We had an illicit meeting in a Chantry in Redcliffe.”

Cullen shook his head. “This is the Tevinter you spoke of meeting, Herald?”

“Yes,” she said back, checking Dorian for injuries. “Shit, Dorian, were you wrestling a druffalo?”

“Venatori, darling,” he simpered back at her. “And I am quite cross with you for not helping break the rebels loose from the Magisterium. I would be even more peeved if I still saw that damn Breach in the sky, but at least I know you’ve been busy.”

The Tevinter rattled off what he knew of the invading force – the Venatori, the mages, the red lyrium, and the head of the snake: Calpernia and The Elder One.

“Commander, I need a plan. Any plan.” Evelyn said through gritted teeth. They quickly hatched a scheme to buy them some time, and Cullen set his men about saving as much as they could. Cullen was dully reminded of how he had mentioned this exact situation in the meeting to decide whether to support the mages or the Templars; as the mages descended from the mountain, he gave the Templars permission to engage.

Everything happened at once. The Templars, still full of lyrium from sealing the Breach, ran to the front to combat the mages. The Inquisition soldiers, sobering up at a rapid pace, formed the second line. Evelyn and her team raced to clear the trebuchets…

…and Cullen got his first glimpse at how the Herald fought.

She was tired, and definitely favoring her left arm still. She’d been blown 30 paces by the power of the Breach closing, and he knew she ached in every bone.

She stayed close enough to Cassandra to touch the Seeker’s back, and when the warrior engaged, Evelyn simply vanished, to reappear seconds later behind Cassandra’s target. Then her daggers spun in her hands, green light dancing from the left, and whatever stood between her and the Seeker was shredded. Varric and Solas stood somewhat apart from them, calling out targets and controlling the pace of the battle with ice and lightning and the steady _thump_ of Bianca’s bolts.

Varric got surrounded by a sudden influx of red lyrium abominations that seemed to tumble over the stockade wall, and Evelyn threw herself through the air, daggers-first, and then exploded in a wheeling circle of death. Three men were down by the time Cassandra arrived, shield swinging to knock everyone away from the dwarf. Varric had escaped with nothing more than an ugly scratch on his jacket.

Cullen’s soldiers arrived to fortify the trebuchet, and Evelyn charged off to clear the other. Cullen tore his eyes away from her retreating form to find another squad sober enough to support the Herald. As he brought the reinforcements to the gate, a sudden surge of mages swarmed them, and it was all they could do to keep clear Evelyn’s path of escape. But then the other trebuchet fired, and brought the mountain down on the Venatori. The cheer hadn’t even left the air before the dragon blew up the trebuchet and sent them all scurrying for shelter.

“Archdemon!” Dorian said, peering out of the chantry door as Cullen and the Herald came running up with what was left of his men. “How did he keep _that_ hidden on the march in?”

“The Breach,” Evelyn said shortly. “It was the only thing you saw when you looked up, so nobody looked up.”

Dorian nodded. “Probably right.”

But Cullen couldn’t hear them. They were lost – he had lost – and the only plans he could see now were the kind that let them go out with honor. “Make them work for it,” he had told his Lieutenant, and Maker Help Him, he meant it.

But Evelyn and Dorian had other ideas. When Roderick spoke up about an escape path only he was alive to remember, Cullen couldn’t look anywhere but Evelyn’s eyes. He was watching her the exact second she made the decision he suddenly feared more than any other, saw the resolution settle and her posture shift.

Dorian tried to come with her. “Keep with Roderick,” she told him. “You’re both hurt. If we get the Inquisition to safety, you are going to be needed… you have to tell Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine everything you know about these Venatori.”

Cullen noticed she hadn’t mentioned Cassandra. The Seeker was waiting at the door for Evelyn. She caught Cullen’s eye, shook her head. She would stay with the Herald, come what may. Solas and Varric were ransacking a crate of potions, taking as many as they could carry before handing the rest to a passing Templar.

“Get them free, Cullen,” Evelyn whispered, and then turned for the door.

“Find a way,” he replied. Only a twitch of her head indicated she might have heard.

The trebuchet was loaded and his men were running through the Chantry door before the last of the survivors could pass through the tiny portal in the back of the Chantry dungeon. The passage was short, and they came out on a pass that was easy to follow but nearly impossible to find; it seemed to dead end at the bottom of a ravine, where the door into the Haven Chantry was hidden. Roderick led the way, and Cullen stayed until the very end. He was pulling the door shut when he heard a commotion on the stairs, and saw Cassandra being dragged between Varric and Solas.

“Where is the Herald?” he cried, and flinched to hear the desperation in his voice.

“Sent us running when the dragon landed,” Varric said. “Seeker got roughed up, took both of us to get her out.”

Cassandra was livid, but Cullen rushed them through the door. They have to give the signal as quickly as possible; the Herald was alone out there.

Sera was waiting just outside the door as they came barreling through. “Now,” Cullen cried. “Light it!”

She fired the burning arrow straight up; Dorian enhanced the fire to make it more visible and Solas pushed at the air under to throw it impossibly high up; it made a high-pitched whizzing sound as it ascending, and Cullen held his breath while they waited.

From an impossible distance, the _whirl-thump_ of a trebuchet swinging full and releasing. The growing rumble of avalanche, the ground rattling under their feet. And then, terribly, a dragon taking flight seconds before the sounds of breaking timbers and screaming Venatori indicated the rockfall had landed on Haven.

One of his Lieutenants asked if they should barricade the door they had fled through, but the thought sickened Cullen. He told the man they didn’t have the time or energy to spare, but his real thought was, they couldn’t risk closing off any escape route Evelyn might find.

So they moved on into the mountains, the sky previously consumed by the Breach now threatening a different kind of horror as darkness fell and a storm blew in.

They reached the top of the pass and Cullen looked back at the devastation that was Haven, and he found it very  hard to Hope.


	6. The Dawn Comes

It was well after midnight before he could be drawn to his bed, pulled from the edges of the camp where she might appear. When he awoke the next morning – the night brutally short by neccessity of their flight – he fully expected her to be there. The despair that greeted him when he emerged from his tent, on the face of every man and woman fleeing Haven, cut him to his core.

The army of mages. The Elder One. The archdemon. The avalanche. The blizzard. The odds of her surviving any one of those encounters was poor, but when taken together it was abysmal, and those odds sunk further by the hour. When they set camp the second night, with the rear scouts still reporting no sign of her, he had nearly no hope left.

Knowing to turn away was to give in to despair, he stayed at the far edge of camp. He had a beacon lit – and immediately extinguished – on the crest of the hill behind them, and prayed it would lead her to them. And then he flatly refused to attempt sleep, resolutely planted with his back to camp, eyes on the path back to Haven.

Somehow, he was in position to see her first. He watched the figure appear at the top of the hill, hands to the lingering warmth of the beacon. He saw he fall to her knees as her face turned to the light of the camp and found salvation. He sent runners to fetch Adan and Mother Giselle as he raced to where she collapsed in the snow, Cassandra and Solas hard on his heels.

She was coated in a layer of ice, and her skin was an eerie shade of blue beneath. Her eyelashes were so heavy with the snow she had fallen into that she could scarce open her eyes. Her hands were frozen around the hilts of her drawn daggers, her left hand glowing green around the charred grip. Cullen paused only long enough to lift her into his arms before racing back down the hill, Cassandra clearing a path through the inevitably gathered crowd. Solas, yet on his heels, must have been performing some kind of applicable healing magic, as the residual lyrium in Cullen’s veins was tingling and a focused stream of warmth seemed to connect the mage with the unconscious rogue.

Dorian was standing at the entrance to a large tent, and directed them inside as he held the flap open. He burst into the heated space – Dorian’s work, likely – and was shocked to see Leliana grimly stripping out of her leathers. Josephine and Sera pulled Evelyn out of Cullen’s arms and quickly worked at breaking her out of her sheath of ice, flexing her stiffened limbs and peeling off frozen sheets from her armor. Then Dorian had him by the arm and was pulling him backwards out of the tent, into the darkness.   
“Body heat,” Cullen said a bit dumbly, realizing why Leliana had been shucking her clothes. Dorian nodded. “It’s best, the safest way to warm her up.”

“Why Leliana?” the question left his mouth without checking with his brain first; he flushed crimson when he realized how it had sounded.

Dorian smiled. “Well, it had to be a woman for propriety’s sake, despite the fact I covet our Herald’s flesh less than at least two of the women in there. But Leliana, specifically?” The Tevinter shrugged. “Rogues. Leliana knows how to avoid getting punctured by those daggers, and is the most likely to get them away from Evelyn if she wakes up. Anybody else could be gutted.”

Cullen scoffed. “The Herald wouldn’t-“ but a ragged shout and Josephine’s scream cut him off.

Cassandra, poised at the flap of the tent, darted back inside. Cullen hurried to take her place, stealing a glimpse inside when Mother Giselle tumbled out.

The Herald was stiff with the cold, but her deadly grace was still breathtaking. She would be liquid death at full strength. She was squared off with Leliana, daggers glinting with a streak of Cassandra’s blood. Sera crouched between Josephine and Evelyn, shielding the ambassador as she tended to an irate but largely hale Seeker with defensive wounds on her arms.

Evelyn was delusional with exhaustion, snow blinded and dehydrated. But she fended off every attempt Leliana made to disarm her.

The tent flap slid shut and his brief view disappeared as Mother Giselle fled, out of her element.

Cullen gestured to Dorian. “Don’t let anyone in,” he said, and entered the tent before he could lose his nerve.

He hadn’t noticed, somehow, that Evelyn and Leliana were both in their small clothes. That may have given him pause, had he considered it before entering. Evelyn was completely confused by her surroundings, and Leliana didn’t give him a second glance, so he tried to put their relative nudity out of his mind.

“Evelyn,” he said, voice pitched to carry over Josephine’s tears and Cassandra’s litany of curses.

The Herald went still. “Cullen?” her voice was rough, gravelly to the point of near nonexistance. All the skin that had been exposed to the storm was an unhealthy purple. Her face was swollen, eyelids iced shut. But she could hear.  
“Yes, Evelyn. Cullen.” his voice threatened to break – he never used their given names.

Slowly and deliberately, so she could hear each step, he crossed the room, describing her surroundings in relation to where she stood. He told her where each of her allies stood, and had them speak up in confirmation so she could hear them for herself. Evelyn’s daggers slowly fell. Cullen reached her side. “This is my hand on your right wrist,” he said. “I’m going to stand behind you. I have your back.”

She was cold – far too cold. The already-warm room was heating up from body heat and stress, but still she stood shivering. Cullen could not help a glance down at her form – her soaked underthings left little to the imagination. It had colored his choice to stand behind her, but the lines of her back were just as distracting to him as her front would have been.

“You’re safe, Evelyn,” he found himself saying. “You made it. You found us. You’re safe. Let us help you.”

Her left arm dropped suddenly, but his free hand shot out to catch it. Leliana darted forward and pulled the frozen daggers out of Evelyn’s grasp as Cullen held her wrists steady. She leaned back against him, his chilled breast plate fogging from the contact, and the room burst into motion. Her felt her right hand twist in his grasp, fingers twine through his own as she whispered his name. “Safe,” she murmured. Then she was in Leliana’s arms, the Spymaster whispering a steady monologue as Sera and Josephine wrapped the two rogues in layer after layer of blankets and furs.

“Lana,” the Herald whispered, burying her face in the other woman’s shoulder and giving in to a violent bout of shivering. Leliana looked stricken, but he heard her quiet agreement. “Yes, Evelyn, I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Cullen wordlessly let himself out.

Dorian met his eyes for a moment before wandering a few steps away to steal a folding stool from a nearby campfire. He handed it to Cullen, patted the Commander on the shoulder, and then wearily made his way back to his own tent.

Cullen sat in front of the tent flap and sent away any who tried to relieve him of his watch. He came up with errands for them all, from endless cords of firewood and hot water to supplies for Adan and food & beverage for the woman working within. Eventually Josephine asked for someone to fetch her writing board so she could start sending out missives reassuring the world of the survival of the Inquisition – and its Herald.

After several hours, Bull’s Chargers arrived to physically remove Cullen and relocate him – by force if necessary – to his own tent to rest. Even then, it was only the Iron Bull’s offer to personally take up the watch that convinced Cullen to leave.

He expected his nightmare to be particularly brutal that night, with creatures of ice rather than fire. He was pleasantly surprised when he awoke to find his only memories of the night were the weight of Evelyn in his arms, and the feel of a single moment with their fingers entwined.

 

*

 

They stayed in the little bowl at the bottom of the pass for two days, waiting for the Herald to wake up. Once word spread that she was alive – again – no one wanted to move. They didn’t have anywhere to go, regardless of what the consensus was. Waiting around for the Herald to wake up was as good a plan as any.

Cullen had already filled the evening before as he’d watched for Evelyn with any possible planning he could have been needed for. There was no indication any Venatori had survived the landslide, much less that anyone knew where the surviving Inquisition was or was able to follow. A system of relays and a very tense watch was set to look out for the dragon, but there was very little they could do if it decided to attack. The consensus was that the Venatori had an archdemon, and the Inquisition had but one Warden.

“A remarkable lack of redundancy planning,” Dorian said with a disappointed head shake.

There weren’t enough tents to go around, so sleeping was done in shifts. As Cassandra was recovering from her injuries both from the dragon and from the Herald, Cullen took turns with Leliana in sitting with Evelyn, while Josephine worked tirelessly to announce to the world that the Inquisition, and the Herald, were still alive. And whenever Cullen was thrown out of that tent, he was drawn into Dorian’s, where he tirelessly drew information about Calpernia and the mages of the Venatori out of the Tevinter.

It was nearing midnight, a full day after she was found, that Cullen first found himself holding her hand.

“Wake up,” he whispered gently, ears prickling to warn him before anyone could walk in and discover him. “We are lost without you. You must wake up.”

The sound of footsteps in the snow caused him to lay her hand back on the coverlet and smooth the blanket nervously as Dorian entered the tent.

“Does she know?” the mage asked.

“Know?” Cullen replied.

“Oh, come on,” Dorian said, rolling his eyes. “I’ve been here for a couple of days and _I_   know. Does she know you’re fond of her? Have you talked about it?”

Cullen, too tired for falsehood, shook his head.

“Well, why not?”

“Because I didn’t know. Not until she walked out of the Chantry door to trade her life for ours.”

“That is abysmally bad timing, Commander,” Dorian chided. Cullen laughed at himself helplessly.

“She’s the Herald of Andraste,” he continued. “She’s going to be the head of the Inquisition, our Inquisitor, when she wakens. She’s nobility. And right now she’s the only person who knows what happened that night between when the dragon landed and she fired off the trebuchet. What she is to me – or to anyone, for that matter – must be secondary to that.”

“She’s also a rogue, a thief, and a spectacular tease.”

“And you know this how?”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Do you not have _eyes_ , man?”

Cullen definitely had eyes. They were difficult to tear from the woman ensconced in a sea of blankets before him.

Dorian sighed. “I don’t suppose I could sway your interest?”

Cullen looked at Dorian in shock, before shaking his head with a laugh.

“Damn,” Dorian said. “Well, consider yourself off the menu, then. And thank you.”

Cullen looked askance at him.

“You opened the door. You didn’t let me die in front of the gates. You didn’t leave me to die in Haven. Haven’t left me to die anywhere, yet. I do appreciate it. If it’s not too much to ask, a continuation of this theme would be lovely.”

Cullen laughed again. He couldn’t help but like the man. “I’ll do what I can,” he said.

Dorian bowed with a flourish, leaving Cullen to quietly take up Evelyn’s hand.

She awoke an hour past sunset the next day, two days after she was found, three days after the loss of Haven.

Leliana was with her. Dorian was hovering nearby and heard the sudden conversation within. He quickly found and woke Cullen, who had been convinced to sleep some five hours before. “She’s asking for you,” he said simply.

Cullen was instantly awake. He strode to the Herald’s tent, slowing when he realized word had not yet spread. If her consciousness was temporary, he didn’t want to spread false alarm. He scratched lightly at the tentflap.

“In,” Leliana called gently.

Her eyes were open, and Cullen instantly felt a grin spread across his face.

“Cullen,” Evelyn whispered gently.

“Good morning, Herald,” he said in reply. “So nice of you to decide to join us.”

She laughed weakly, made a rude gesture, and Cullen felt the strain ease from around his heart.

Leliana shifted so she was sitting on the side of the cot, and she gestured for Cullen to take the stool she had vacated. He felt too big for the room with these women in it, barely filling the cot while he loomed alongside.

“I know you’re tired, Evelyn,” Leliana was saying in a low tone. “But if you can, tell us what happened after you sent Cassandra away.”

“Are they alright?”

Cullen nodded. “Varric and Solas got her to the passage just as the last of us were leaving. She’s fine.”

Evelyn took a deep breath, seeming to release a great burden.

“He said his name was Corypheus,” she started. The story she told was incredible; if not for the hole in the sky and Cullen having seen this Elder One with his own eyes, it would have been impossible to believe. The details of her escape seemed nothing short of miraculous, and her trek through the blizzard had taken her perpendicular to the route they had followed, an arduous hike over terrible terrain in the best of times.

If the anchor was permanent, then Corypheus wouldn’t care if she and the Inquisition had survived his onslaught, as he had to come up with some other plan. To what end, they couldn’t be sure; how much do you believe of the words of a darkspawn aspiring to godhood?

“And the Inquisition,” Evelyn pressed when she finished. “Where does it stand?”

Leliana and Cullen traded looks. It would be kinder not to tell her.

“That bad, huh?” She was more recovered than they thought.

Leliana nodded. “We have no information. Without information, it is impossible to plan. We mobilized enough supplies to keep us alive for awhile, but we need to find a fortifiable location and start to rebuild.”

“From scratch,” Evelyn sighed. Cullen nodded. “Well… shit.”

Leliana laughed. “Varric has another nickname for you, Evelyn.”

“Now what?”

“Lucky,” the Nightingale managed with a straight face.

“Fuck you,” Evelyn replied, rapidly falling back asleep, “and fuck him.” She gestured at Cullen. “You’re alright. I guess.”

“Thanks, Lucky,” he said solemnly.

Whatever retort she had was lost on her lips as she drifted unconscious.

“Mother Giselle says she will need another day or two before she can be safely moved. She was very badly injured, as you know, and our supplies are limited.”

Cullen nodded. “We have nothing better to do.”

 

*

 

It was another day before the fighting started.

It was almost like it had been in the time before the Herald, before Evelyn stepped in and gave them all direction.

They were all simply voicing their frustration, Cullen knew. But that didn’t keep the anger behind his teeth, didn’t keep him from lashing out with the rest of the council.

They had stopped for a moment to breathe, settling into a sullen embarrassment only a fight where everyone is wrong can engender. She just appeared, at the edge of the clearing they had set up a makeshift map table in, leaning weakly against a tent pole. She shouldn’t have been upright yet, definitely shouldn’t have been drawn from rest by their fight. Compared to everything else the woman had done, this was only a minor miracle.

And then the voice of Mother Giselle behind her snapped her head around in shock. An ancient hymn from the days of Andraste, older than the Chantry, older than the Chant. Leliana’s crystalline voice rose in the second verse and the whole camp soon joined her. Cullen found Evelyn’s eyes and somehow found his voice, joining the rest of the Inquisition in praise for their resurrected Herald. Men began to fall to their knees in front of her, and she seemed on the edge of panic.

But she stared at Cullen, watched him sing, and seemed to reach some kind of resolve.

She disappeared, but no one thought twice about that anymore. And when she strode up to he and Leliana at sundown, she had the one thing the Inquisition needed: a plan.

“Scouts north?” Leliana asked, for the third time. Evelyn laughed. “Yes. North.”

“There is nothing north.”

“You go north long enough and you’ll come across the Waking Sea, so there has to be SOMEthing north,” Evelyn said weakly. Her spirits were high but she was still a long way from recovered.

“Leliana,” Evelyn said, cupping the Spymaster’s shoulders with her hands. It was the first time Cullen had seen her touch another person with the glowing left hand; Leliana managed not to flinch away from it. “I need you to trust me.”

The Nightingale swallowed hard, but ducked her head. “As you say, Your Worship.”

Evelyn winced, but nodded acknowledgement of the jab; if she was going to ask for people to follow blindly, she had to accept all the other aspects of faith.

“Cullen, how soon can we be mobilized?”

“On an hour’s notice, honestly,” he said. “But our better bet is to wait until morning.”

Evelyn smiled at him, agreeing. “Morning then. Start spreading the word around the fires tonight. We’re going Home.”

 

*

 

Nobody knew what she meant, of course. Haven was destroyed. If she was honest, Evelyn didn’t know what she was leading them to, but she knew she had to appear confident for the sake of morale… nobody had to know she was flying blind.

And yet she confessed it to Cullen at the edge of camp when they stopped the next night.

“You’re not serious,” he said, drawing her farther away from the fires.

She laughed, and immediately wished she hadn’t. He was looking at her like she was insane.

“I am dead serious. I know there’s something up there, but I have no idea what.”

“How do you know?”

“Solas,” she replied, and Cullen narrowly avoided groaning out loud.

“He has walked the Fade, he knows where it is. He’s leading me as I lead you.”

“Has he seen this place with his own eyes? Is it occupied? Is it intact?”

Evelyn twisted her mouth into a guilty little smile, and Cullen covered his face with his hands.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I don’t mind everybody else following me blindly. But you deserve better.”

It was not what he expected. But Evelyn had already withdrawn as he dropped his hands to look at her, heading back to the fire. “If I can’t buy you that last drink, this the least I can do.”

 

*

 

Their faith was well-placed. It was three days of hard travel before they came across the first signs of hope; an ancient roadway, stones somehow clear of snow and free of weeds. Dorian was on one knee, pressing his hands against the rocks, and his next words traveled the length of the column within minutes: “this is a kind of protection magic I have never seen before.”

“Protection?” Evelyn asked, drawing near him. “From what?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” the Tevinter said cheerily. “Told you I’ve never seen it before.”

Evelyn swatted at him and laughed, but shared a meaningful glance with Solas.

The next day, the road led them to the top of a pass, and then dropped into an enormous valley. Perched directly in the middle of the valley, still some miles away, was their salvation. Evelyn turned and gestured grandly. “Home,” she said happily, as the refugees from Haven started to spill into the valley.

“Does it have a name?” Cassandra breathed.

“Skyhold,” Solas replied.

Cullen reached out and clasped the elf’s forearm; Solas echoed the gesture but with a look of definite confusion.

“Thank you,” Cullen said simply. “Nicely done.”

Solas let go and demurred. “We all follow the Herald.”

 

*

 

The place was defensible, Cullen decided instantly. It was the kind of structure generals dream of, and conquering armies dash themselves to pieces against its foundations. Siege engines would have to be carried into the valley and assembled within sight of the walls, and even then the lowest levels of the foundation were the solid stone of the mountain Skyhold had been seemingly carved out of. The only way in was a long causeway that was blessedly intact, if a little crumbly in places, which connected the main structure with a guard tower and the stout main gates.

There was a wide expanse of relatively flat ground around the gates, and Cullen set the army and Templars to encamp there, requisitioning all the tents that had made the journey.

The rest of the personnel and supplies were taken over the causeway into the main structure. Roofs were collapsed in many of the towers and there was debris in the courtyards, but the defensive features were all structurally sound. Work could begin on creating living spaces inside the gates and gradually expanding what was usable inside, but for now there was enough room to house the survivors of Haven.

They spent the first night all packed in the Main Hall, the chimneys found to be hale and great fires lit. Mother Giselle led them all in a simple ceremony honoring those who were lost, and celebrating those who had lived. Her phrasing left no doubt to whom she chiefly referred to; the Herald had escaped death yet again.

The next morning dawned bright, and Cullen stood in the crowd as Cassandra drew Evelyn up the stairs in the courtyard to take the sword of the Inquisition from Leliana. She had argued, just as they’d expected her to, but she had already given everything else to this cause, what was one more title? When asked to give the Inquisition its focus, the words poured out of her like cold water from a spring: justice for Justinia, vengeance for the Conclave and Haven, and a return to peace.

But even with focus, they were starting over from scratch.

There was still food enough to go around, and hunting in the mountain pass had been bountiful. Cullen still wasn’t sure how the livestock had gotten out of Haven, but the shepherds had laughed when he asked and told him never to doubt the abilities of a scared ram or a cornered druffalo. Rumor had it they’d hidden behind Haven when the army first started to descend into the valley and a spooked ram had climbed an embankment and disappeared, leading his shepherds to the retreating Inquisition forces.

If Cullen hadn’t known that Corypheus wasn’t following them, he would have been worried at how easily they were found.

Leliana had run to the raven cote when it was clear Haven was being overrun, and freed all the birds but one, the oldest and crankiest of the lot. He was released from the tower Leliana claimed at Skyhold and over the course of the next three weeks, all of Leliana’s ravens made their way to their new home. “No other bird could do that,” she told Cullen primly when he asked what her plans were to restock the ravens and discovered they were already recovered.

As soon as they could pull it together, Evelyn led a party back to the Hinterlands and then to the Storm Coast for the healing herbs and good hunting to be found there. It gave her an opportunity to be seen, as well, and reassure their allies that the Inquisition had indeed survived the attack on Haven; that the Herald was now the Inquisitor.

Anyone who met  her now saw the difference in her. The mark – which everyone called the anchor – no longer pulsed with the Breach, but still caused her a searing pain when she used it. As much as she bemoaned it, the title of Inquisitor fit her much more comfortably than Herald ever had, and she was able to relax in her role.

Cullen suspected he was the only one who knew how badly the battle with Envy had shaken her. She had skipped over large sections of the story as she told it to him, referring to visions and conversations by a single word or phrase before shaking her head and moving on. Yet the parts he knew of were bad enough; he could not imagine what else she had seen, but he knew precisely how terrible it had been for her.

A shrine to Andraste was quickly found and cleared in the small garden at Skyhold, and whenever she believed she would not be missed, Evelyn secreted herself there and chanted Transfigurations until her hands stopped shaking.

“O Creator, see me kneel: for I walk only where You would bid me, stand only in places You have blessed, sing only the words You place in my throat.” Her voice was broken and choked with tears when Cullen happened to find her there late one night, having risen from a nightmare and seeking solace himself.

“My Maker, know my heart. Take from me a life of sorrow. Lift me from a world of pain. Judge me worthy of Your endless pride. My Creator, judge me whole: find me well within Your grace. Touch me with fire that I be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to your approval.  O Maker, hear my cry: Seat me by Your side in death. Make me one with Your glory. And let the world once more see Your favor.”

Cullen slowly left, unwilling to interrupt the litany that was seeming to steady her. Easing against the wall outside, he finished the verse with her, silently moving his lips along with her voice.

“For You are the fire at the heart of the world, and comfort is only Yours to give.”


	7. Masks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I prefer this Leliana to the borderline insane Leliana we see in the Inquisition.  
> Chapter divisions juggled, so this one is now a bit shorter.

She was a flirt. That was the long and short of it. A _committed_ flirt; it was inevitable that she and Dorian became fast friends, as they were cut from the same cloth.

She was careful about it, of course. She kept her flirtations to appropriate moments, when they could be laughed aside or appreciated as harmless. She was as likely to ignore an opportunity for innuendo as to leap upon it, and she was always ready with an apology if her humor fell flat. She rarely needed to apologize, though; she was so thoroughly adored by most everyone she encountered that any charm she turned on was eagerly eaten up.

Evelyn the Flirt, Cullen would think when she flashed that impish smile at Dorian or Sera, her two most common confederates. It was painfully clear there was no romance whatsoever between the three of them, but that only seemed to allow them a greater freedom in their outrageous (often bawdy) behavior. Or, at least, that’s what was assumed; Evelyn was the soul of discretion, and nothing ever passed her lips that might be heard by an unintended party.

Cullen decided she simply had many masks. Evelyn the Flirt was her favorite, but it was stowed away whenever she strode out of the gates of Skyhold. She packed different masks for her travels – The Herald, The Inquisitor, The Lady Trevelyan. Dorian told Cullen stories of Evelyn the Assassin, the brutal visage she bore when she drew her daggers afield. The woman who sat at the bar and asked to be his friend, and later sat with him in her tent for over an hour, confessing what Envy had put into her mind... Cullen thought these were the real Evelyn, but she seemed to have disappeared since their arrival in Skyhold.

He found himself watching her, studying her really, trying to get a picture of who she actually was. She seemed to feel his eyes on her – and she was equally likely to meet his gaze with an impish smile or vanish seemingly into thin air.

He happened to catch her eyes as he was crossing the battlements one afternoon and almost immediately lost track of her in the crowded courtyard below.

“Caught you,” her voice rose suddenly from just behind his elbow, and he startled.

Her voice was a touch too low for the giggle it somehow produced, and Cullen found himself grinning in spite of his discomfiture.

“I see you are wearing your trickster mask today, Inquisitor,” he said, a bit peevishly. He instantly regretted it.

She stopped short. “My what?”

Cullen plowed forward. “You are a woman with a hundred masks, my lady Trevelyan,” he said, intentionally using a different title of address. He said it gently, hoping she would discern gaiety in his tone. “While it always a joy to discover what mask you put on, one cannot help but imagine who might be behind them all.” She stood on the battlements, watching him go, rendered mute. Helplessly, Cullen walked on; he was already late.

She was waiting for him the next morning, cross-legged on his carefully cleared desk when he descended from his sleeping chamber. He went still at the base of the ladder, unsure of the reality of the scene. His nightmares – and dreams, he supposed – had felt particularly real of late.

“What do you want to know?” she asked by way of greeting.

“Excuse me?”

“No games, no masks. You want to know me? Here I am. Ask me anything.”

“My lady,” he raced to apologize, “I did not mean-“

“Evelyn.” She said firmly. “No titles. And you were right. I am too many things. So, please. Ask.”

Cullen found himself staring dumbly at her. “Would you care to join me for breakfast?”

She laughed, a breathy chuckle he found captivating. “Yes, actually.” She slid off his desk and crossed gracefully across his office, practically dancing through the door he held open for her. She seemed bubbling with energy, which made sense. Thinking back, he couldn’t remember her ever being both awake and still. She never stood when she could be dancing, never walked when she could run.

She had gotten herself freed for the day, she told him over a pot of tea and freshly baked scones in the great hall. “I told Leliana you had called me out on my shit and I needed to make it right.”

Cullen fought to suppress a surprised bark of laughter, but her answering grin drove him to failure.

“Leliana knows you well, then,” he said a moment later, and she nodded around a mouthful of scone.

“We are alike in many ways,” Evelyn answered between bites. “Our stories are wildly different, don’t get me wrong. I don’t have anywhere near the history she has, the loves lost and battles won. But the way we fight, the way we train – we sparred once, in Haven, and knew we had common ground. Having a common goal, common associates, common faith – it all made it impossible not to connect.”

The open honesty was astonishing to Cullen. He didn’t expect her to lie, of course, but he had given up hope of hearing so much from their lady Inquisitor. “Do you train with Leliana still?” He asked.

“Regularly,” Evelyn confirmed, glancing around to be sure she wasn’t overheard. “Especially since the night after Haven fell…” she trailed off, shame ghosting across her face. She struggled briefly and swept her expression clean, flashing him a sterile smile.

Cullen rapped her knuckle with his teaspoon, and she recoiled. “Mask,” he said dryly.

Her jaw dropped as she stared at him, absently rubbing her hand. Her expression slowly melted into a sly grin. “Trying to keep me honest? It’ll take more than a teaspoon to make an honest woman of _me._ ”

Cullen casually reached over to the saucer of sugar settled between them and flicked a lump at the Inquisitor. The tiny projectile managed to bounce off her nose, and she flinched comically. Cullen fought back a smirk.

“Mask,” he said again.

Evelyn dropped her head to the table with an audible thud.

Laughing at her now wouldn’t be very chivalrous, but Cullen couldn’t completely stifle his grin. He valiantly fought to sober his expression (and failed) but kept his voice completely even when he leaned forward and dropped his tone for only her ears.

“Your reaction that night – fear, defense, striking out – was understandable. Human, even. You were only barely alive, and when you reach that point only instinct is still functioning.”

Evelyn tilted her head up a few degrees, not meeting his eyes but clearly listening.

“You were a solid sheet of ice when we found you. How you were still breathing is beyond me, much less walking through drifts up to your thigh.” Cullen paused to swallow thickly, acutely aware of how her thighs had looked when he saw her fighting Leliana in their smallclothes that night.  “But you survived, if only by providence and sheer force of will. And any actions you took at that point were so far out of your control as to not even be attributable to you.”

Evelyn was watching him wearily now, as if unwilling to believe him, or perhaps uncertain how to begin to do so.

“You’re a warrior, Cullen,” she said softly, a few embarrassed bites of scone later. “Have you ever lost control, hurt a friend?”

Cullen shook his head slowly. “Yes to both. But in separate incidents.”

Evelyn narrowed her gaze, and opened her mouth to ask the obvious question, but Cullen cut her off by waving his teaspoon threateningly at her knuckles. “You have always been willing to ask me anything,” he said, and felt himself flush at the memory of explaining to the Herald of Andraste precisely what a templar’s vows did and did not allow. Evelyn grinned, but with a blush of self-consciousness that was refreshingly human. “If this is the only opportunity I get to do the same, I do not intend to waste my time on stories of my misspent youth.”

She sobered then, and fought to maintain eye contact. “It need not be the only opportunity,” she said. "I remember several times in Haven you prompted me to speak openly of myself."

Cullen waved a hand dismissively, a gesture at odds with the sudden turmoil beneath his ribcage. “One day at a time,” he murmurred noncommittally.

They finished breakfast as the keep was waking up, and the great hall slowly filled with residents seeking breakfast. It was normal, if the Inquisitor wasn’t out on a mission, to find her taking meals with one or another of her company and council, although Cullen could count the number of times he had broken fast with the woman on one finger. She was a night owl, and he rose before the sun; their schedules rarely aligned. That she was waiting for him that morning spoke to her sleeping very little, if at all, and the thought shook him.

“You were speaking of Leliana,” he prompted her, as she followed him on his morning inspection of the battlements.

She nodded. “Leliana was… not pleased… by her inability to disarm the sorry rogue-cicle you carried off the mountain that night. As such, we’ve been training together. It’s been as good for me as for her – she is really quite good, if a bit out of practice. Having a legion of agents can dull one’s own skills.”

Cullen had started laughing at the term ‘rogue-cicle’ but sobered with the very next word. “ _I_ carried off the mountain?” he said softly.

Evelyn shot him a mildly disgusted look. “Don’t give me that shit, Commander. I might not remember everything that happened, but I remember _that_. It’s hard to forget the moment you see Salvation running towards you and lifting your dead ass out of the snow.”

He was smiling again. His jaw ached from it. He had no chance to reply before the first of the inevitable flood of daily reports was handed to him. “The Brown report, Commander,” the man – Higgins, his name – said with a smart salute. Cullen nodded at him and he turned heel and disappeared back down the stairs from whence he’d come.

“Brown Report?” Evelyn asked, honestly curious.

Cullen frowned at her, but she could see the amusement in it. “What? I get to ask _no_ questions?”

“Not a one,” he said, continuing his inspection.

Evelyn huffed. “So I get the joy of being interrupted every few seconds by you being handed a report? I get to spend the entire day wondering which part of what I’ve said is going to be carried to the tavern?”

Cullen was immediately apologetic. “I wouldn’t dream of asking you anything invasive while there was any chance it would be overheard.”

Evelyn scowled again. “It’s all invasive, Commander. That’s the fucking point.”

They walked on in silence for awhile.

“Leliana gives good advice,” she offered up when it was clear they were alone for at least the next 30 seconds. “Like I said, we had wildly different lives, but she has _lived_. There is next to nothing you could ask her that she is a stranger to. She traveled with the Hero of Ferelden – now Queen Moira – and battled the archdemon. She has been in the Deep Roads, traveled with the Dalish, and helped save the Circle at Kinloch Hold.”

Her voice faltered as she realized what she had said.

Cullen placed a hand on her arm. “Yes, she and I have discussed it since then. And, no, your mention isn’t an insult.”

Evelyn nodded. “It’s easier, you know. The masks, as you call it. I feel like I’m constantly tripping over my tongue, like every word I say could be made into a target.”

Cullen was handed another report, and Evelyn listened as he rattled off a series of commands in response to his cursory scan of the document. The runner saluted and then disappeared. “Target?” Cullen asked, as if the interruption hadn’t happened.

“Target,” Evelyn repeated. “I don’t know how else to say it.”

Cullen nodded, and let it go.

They continued on like that for hours; brief spans of conversation frequently interrupted by reports, orders, and inspections. By noontime Evelyn was exasperated.

“Sutherland report? I know who Sutherland is. What is being reported about him?”

Cullen waved her into silence, reading through the document before carefully stacking it with a series of similar papers he had been handed over the course of the day, all of them sounding suspiciously like the kind of report Leliana received.

“I could get you the day off,” she said suddenly, and Cullen’s head snapped up in surprise. After the entire morning together, he had become alarmingly accustomed to Evelyn No-Masks, (as she had referred to herself in the third person for roughly two hours in mid-morning, before having her knuckles rapped with a ledger) honestly forgetting he was being shadowed by the _Herald of Andraste_ and treating her like a new recruit. His face flushed as his comfort level plummeted.

She watched the expression on his face and laughed. “Not like _that_ ,” she said. She cracked open the door and called two nearby soldiers into his office. She gave a few terse orders, and had the room rearranged within minutes. Cullen’s desk got shoved against a wall, and a pile of blankets thrown into the opposite corner. Cullen was immediately aggravated by the change. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, I’ll put it back.”

She sent the next runner (Higgins, coincidentally) who came through on an errand of her own, to the undercroft to pick up her left-hand dagger. It arrived within minutes, and she sent the runner on an impossibly long errand to the army encampment and then three different locations in the keep with the promise that he would get free drinks in the tavern on his return that evening. She was met with a grin and Higgins' quickly disappearing backside.

She turned to Cullen with a grin. “I’m going to yell at you now. What I say isn’t important. And when I stop for air, I want you to tell me – in your best troop deployment voice – to sit down and shut up.”

“What? No.”

“It’s not a mask,” she said quickly, and the face-splitting grin she was wearing seemed to validate her point. “You want the real me, you get at least a little bit of trouble.”

The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile, which was all the permission she needed. Still grinning madly, she reared back and shrieked at him. “Are you insane? Is this what happens when I’m away? Thank the Maker I decided to put a sharper watch on you!”

“INQUISITOR,” he roared, almost losing his composure when she squeaked in surprise and fell back a step. “I DID NOT ASK YOUR OPINION.”

The silence was deafening. Evelyn collapsed into a heap in the corner of the room opposite his now-moved desk, shaking in soundless hysterics. Cullen sat down heavily and watched her with what he was coming to realize was far more than fondness. She wiped the tears from her eyes and settled into a cross-legged slouch on the thickly piled rug, whet stone and freshly repaired dagger in her lap.

“Now,” she said, quite cheerfully. “Whenever someone gets the courage to come in here, I sharpen my dagger and mutter about the gross indignity of it all. And while you write responses or whatnot, you grumble about my being in your business and making me learn my role.

Cullen just shook his head.

Her scheme definitely worked. It was three quarters of an hour before the first tentative knock was tapped onto his office door. Cullen had to work for two solid minutes to swallow his grin before he could bark a sharp “IN!” to the terrified soldier waiting with a stack of missives. Cullen grumbled about the brash insufferability of their _Herald_ while shuffling through the reports, and Evelyn sullenly dragged the whet stone over her dagger.

Not another runner entered Cullen’s office; three soldiers seemed to be taking turns collecting reports and bringing them in to the Commander en masse. They arrived every half-hour, precisely, as if scheduled.

“Alright, some peace. Ask me something,” she said after the top-of-the-hour soldier hastily shut the door behind himself.

Cullen frowned. “I don’t know if I am comfortable prying.”

Evelyn scowled in return. “Pry, for fuck’s sake. I’m asking you to.”

Cullen sighed. “You called yourself a thief, once. And you’ve told me you were in jail in the past.”

Evelyn laughed humorlessly. “I should have expected that. You forget nothing.”

Cullen wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not, and said as much. “It was,” Evelyn replied absently.

“I am the youngest daughter of my very proper, very brutal father. I believe you know of him?”

Cullen nodded, but she continued without looking up. “By the time I was born, all the roles were filled. I had a sister in the Templars, a brother set to inherit and a brother waiting in the wings behind him, the ‘heir and a spare.’ I had a sister marry into another noble house and start popping out babies, and my oldest sister I never met, as she was whisked away to the circle in Ostwick before I was born. My closest brother – in age at least – went into business, supposedly for himself but we all know he was a front for my father’s more illicit affairs. By the time it was my turn to make a  name for myself, there was nowhere to go. There was no vocation I could choose that one of my siblings wasn’t already doing, wasn’t already excelling at. And since I was the least favorite – either because I was headstrong or because my mother died birthing me – it didn’t matter how well I did. I would always be second best.”

The subject was decidedly uncomfortable, but Cullen couldn’t look away. Evelyn had acquired this _intensity_ that Cullen had only ever seen in the war room or in battle.

“So rather than throw myself into a competition I would never win, I did the exact opposite. I rebelled. I did everything my father asked me to, of course… attended my lessons, minded my manners. But as soon as I was released from company at night, I was out the window and gone. I met a Carta dwarf – name of Cadash – who saw in me an ally. I knew people, heard when other rich families would be out of town, knew when major events were happening. And in exchange, all I wanted was a teacher. He taught me how to pick locks, how to get into and out of places, how to …escape from bindings.” She blushed, closed her eyes, stared resolutely at the floor. Cullen felt his stomach tighten; he didn’t want to consider the implications of that blush.

“And since I was a Trevelyan,” she continued after a moment, although she still wasn’t meeting Cullen’s eyes, “if one of us needed to be left behind to get caught so everyone else could escape, I always volunteered. I knew my father would _never_ let me be punished severely; it would cause too much damage to the family name. He hoped I would eventually grow out of it, and if not, that I would at least excel as a criminal, since I definitely wasn’t destined for anything of worth.”

Cullen snorted, breaking her reverie. “How I would have liked to see him receive the news of your doings now.”

She smiled at him sadly. “He immediately tried to spin it to his advantage. He has been writing, currying favor. He mentioned having arranged a marriage for me, but we all know that is a lie. Even if I never spent more than one night in jail, everyone knows about the antics of the youngest Trevelyan.”

Cullen shook his head. “I admit, word had not reached us in Kirkwall.”

It was her turn to snort. “I can promise you Hawke heard of it; Varric definitely had. You were just in better circles.”

That she thought the Order in Kirkwall was a better circle than the nobility of Ostwick was a poor recommendation indeed.

“How fare your siblings?” he asked awhile later. She leaned back against the wall as she stared right through him. “I lost two sisters when the Circle fell in Ostwick; the mage and the Templar both. I hear they were found together, one holding the other. I won’t pretend to say I know whether they killed each other or died protecting one another; with my family it really could have gone either way. My second brother – the spare heir – was with my delegation at the Conclave. Keeping me honest, my father said. When Father found out Cadash was going to Haven to spy on the meetings for the Carta and the lyrium trade, he tried to keep me home. But I was already in the delegation from Ostwick and we had met the delegations from the other Free Marches, so pulling me out would have cost his reputation. He settled for sending my brother along instead.”

Cullen was deeply shamed. He couldn’t remember anyone thinking the Herald could have lost people at the Conclave, even after she had her innocence established. And yet she had lost both friend and family, and perhaps even a lover.

“And your loss was compounded by waking up in a cell in Haven,” he managed to say.

The look in her eyes as she refocused on him said that she understood his discomfort. “Everyone lost somebody that day, Cullen. At least the cell was something I was used to.”

“But if all your father has left is yourself and your two brothers, it makes more sense why he would be interested in rekindling your relationship.”

“Which is precisely the way the letters were worded,” she agreed. “My father is a prick, Cullen, a likely slave trader, and an accessory to lyrium smuggling. But the man is not stupid. I don’t think he even minded my running with the Carta; he minded that I was doing it so openly. In some ways, I was following in his footsteps.”

“And your ties to the Carta now?”

Evelyn shrugged. “They were always tenuous at best. Cadash was really the only one who trusted me. Everyone else expected me to grow out of it, like my father did. They were waiting for the day I turned on them to get back into my father’s good graces. Cadash knew better.”

“I cannot fault his taste in allies,” Cullen said mildly.

Evelyn smiled shyly, but whatever reply she could  have made was lost as the door opened and the next collection of reports was brought in. By the time the soldier left, the moment was lost.

But she indicated he should ask her another question, and that he need not make it easy on her.

He fought for a long moment before deciding to ask, “Does it help you… your devotions in the Chantry?”

She worked her jaw for a moment before shaking her head. “I should have known you would have found me there. It is a haunt of yours as well, is it not? No, don’t answer that.” She paused again, considering. “Yes. I think it does. Everyone still has this vision of me as a religious icon, regardless of what I know to be true. How could I have met Andraste and not remembered it? How could I take Her hand and not _known_ it was Andraste? It was the Fade, it could have been anything that threw me back out of the rift. But it is because I believe in Her that I know I am not Her Herald. If that makes sense?”

Cullen nodded silently.

“I have survived so much. The Conclave, the Breach, the avalanche. I should be able to survive my memories. I should be able to overcome the guilt that Envy managed to dig out of me from my own sordid history. I should be able to come to grips with all the things he showed me, because they were just that. Images. Things I was shown, not things I actually did. And what does it matter what you do to images?”

“It’s not that easy,” he said when she fell silent.

She shook her head, laughing with no humor in it. “No. No, it’s not. But I keep telling myself it should be.”

“I have a fondness for the Canticle of Trials. Sometimes it helps to chant something besides Transfigurations.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Commander, just how often have you spied on me in the Chantry?”

He didn’t allow her to bait him. “I saw you in Haven, before we spoke of it. And while I have walked in on your devotions here but once, I have seen you near the Chantry enough to know you make as many nighttime pilgrimages as I.”

They seemed to have the timing perfected; just as they both fell silent, the door opened and the top-of-the-hour soldier skulked in, head down. Cullen and Evelyn neglected their act, allowing the solemnity of their conversation to prolong the illusion of their disagreement.

“Something happier, then?” he said when the soldier left. Evelyn shrugged gamely.

“If there was one time you truly deserved to wake in a jail cell,” Cullen said with as much cheer as he could muster, “what was it that put you there?”

“Just one?” Evelyn replied, withdrawing into that far-off gaze again momentarily before refocusing on Cullen with a fairly wicked grin. “Alright, but you cannot tell Varric. He can’t know it was me. And to be fair, I didn’t know him at the time.”

 

*

 

“This,” Cullen said as the day winded to an end, “was brilliant. I believe I accomplished twice as much today with your little stunt, even with only giving a portion of my attention to work.”

Evelyn grinned again, a rather wicked expression of joy that was growing on Cullen by the minute. “Why, Commander, I’m hurt. _Stunt_   indeed.”

Cullen started to flick the used end of a quill at her, but thought better of it. Not a mask, this time – the sarcasm was definitely all Evelyn.

His jaw hurt from smiling, and likely from forcing that smile into a scowl whenever a tap came on his door. He started to tell her as much when the eastern door to his office exploded inward.

He half-rose from his desk, but Evelyn had already thrown herself in a tight somersault across the floor and come up in front of the door, balanced easily on the balls of her feet and lone dagger point low.

Leliana’s steps did not slow. Evelyn recognized her and straightened instantly, but not without Cullen fixing her with a frown. Leliana walked right past her Inquisitor and threw a sealed note down on Cullen’s desk. “I need your shadow, Commander,” she said with a ghost of a smile.

Evelyn made an amused sound in the back of her throat.

Leliana turned briefly to glance in her friend’s direction. “The whole Keep is buzzing with it – the Commander and the Inquisitor in a shouting match, although no one can quite piece together the source of the trouble. In lieu of dismantling your very clever ruse, I wonder if I could just claim both of you for the time being.”

Cullen found himself smiling again, as if he’d suddenly been included in a very exclusive club. The only harder nut to crack than the Inquisitor was the Nightingale.

“And where is my time going?” he asked with matching formality in his voice.

“Her Worship promised me a spar this evening,” Leliana said, and led them both from Cullen’s office.


	8. Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously. Not batshit crazy Leliana. So much better.

They squared off on the flat roof of the tower that held Evelyn’s apartments. As the highest point in Skyhold, it was easily apparent how the training matches between the Inquisitor and the Nightingale had gone unseen by the general populace.  
“Maker, but we’re a long way up,” Cullen whistled through his teeth as he peered over the edge.

The women with him paid him no mind. They were wearing oddly designed chainmail, in an strangely form-fitted shape. The padding beneath the mail was similarly fitted, leaving very little about the women’s forms to question. Not that it mattered; Cullen had seen them spar in their underthings, a memory he revisited frequently in his dreams.

Their daggers were even more bizarre, perfect replicas of their favored weapons but blunted and coated in what looked like chalk.

Evelyn gestured with one of her daggers. “We spar full contact, Cullen,” she said by way of explanation. He was temporarily distracted by the way his name sounded in her voice. “We had these suits and daggers made so that we’re not pulling any punches. It is a safer way to spar; both for our safety right now, and our muscle memories when we’re in battle.”

Cullen nodded. It was common to use practice weapons in a spar. He suspected watching the two assassins spar would be completely different than what he normally saw on the practice field.

He was right. Evelyn went from her calm explanation into a full leap at Leliana, and the Nightingale’s throaty growl in response was his notice that the fight had begun.

Maker, they were fast. Scuffs from the chalked daggers appeared on the matte black chain, and the full purpose of the suits became more clear – in addition to providing protection, it would be the only way to score such a match. They wore tight caps on their head, which made them nearly indistinguishable as they dodged and weaved through their paces. Their limbs were soon coated in chalk, but Cullen couldn’t see a single white mark on either torso. They were remarkably well matched. Five minutes passed. Ten. Twenty. Their breath was ragged and loud, even in the keening wind, and still they fought on. Suddenly, Leliana slapped Evelyn’s left-hand dagger out of her grasp and swiped at the Inquisitor’s ribs in a brutal upward slash, a triumphant  _ha_  escaping her lips. Evelyn’s suddenly free hand was at the Nightingale’s throat and they both tumbled to the stones of the tower in a heap before rolling apart, gasping for air and laughing. Cullen stood and strode over to them, eager to see the proof of the victor.

Leliana bore a fat white chalk line across the underside of her left breast; a killing blow for sure on a lightly armored rogue. They both bore enough white scratches on their arms to be maimed a thousand times over, but the only true killing blow lay on Leliana. Cullen shook his head.

“That,” Leliana gasped, “was a perfect counter. Well done. I am so glad it worked.”

Evelyn coughed a laugh, plainly exhausted. “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em,” she said, and they both laughed weakly.

Cullen handed them both up, and they retreated back into Evelyn’s apartments, Cullen through the cleverly hidden hatch while the rogues dropped onto the balcony and came in through the window.

“Sparring on a roof is one thing, but jumping off the side of a tower is quite another,” he said as he walked back into the room. Leliana and Evelyn were sprawled on their backs on the floor, sweat pooling beneath them, head to head so they could break down their match in short phrases while they caught their breath. Cullen laughed and set about pouring them both heavy goblets of water, which were accepted with smiles and brief thanks.

Listening to them, he quickly put together that Evelyn’s left hand was undermined by the anchor – a thought which chilled him thoroughly. Luckily, Evelyn had noticed this minor weakness and she & Leliana had been working on a counter. Thus the duration of the spar; it was only at the end of battles or a protracted series of fights that found her disarmed. They fought until Evelyn’s hand weakened, and then Leliana was to disarm her so Evelyn could try a counter.

“Tomorrow,” Evelyn gasped out, slowly catching her breath, “I want to try a Finitian spin, see if I can get behind you when the left hand frees.”

“Not tomorrow,” Leliana replied. “Josie has us catering to the whims of that egomaniac at dinner.”

Cullen groaned, remembering the planned dinner. Leliana seemed to have forgotten he was there, and sat up at the sound. “My apologies, Commander,” she said quickly.

Cullen started to wave her down, but Evelyn spun and snapped Leliana’s wrist out from under her, knocking the Nightingale onto her back. Leliana lunged at her, and they fought briefly until both collapsed in very uncharacteristic giggles. “Not here,” Evelyn said finally. “Never here. Cullen had a point. No titles, no apologies. If only in this room.”

Leliana briefly nodded her head in a bow of acceptance. Cullen stood and made a more formal florish, leaving both women giggling again.  
“You,” Evelyn said finally, pointing at Cullen. “Be a gentleman and give us our privacy. Stand on the balcony for a bit. There should be mulled wine by the fire to ward off the wind.”

His expression must have been priceless, he decided, because both women collapsed into howls of laughter.

“Go!” Leliana cried, and he let himself onto the balcony.

It was scarcely ten minutes before Evelyn, with damp hair but otherwise not a thread out of place, retrieved Cullen from his exile. It was far warmer on the balcony than it had been on the roof of the tower, but the mulled wine was not an unwelcome addition. Leliana was seated before the fire, toweling dry her hair. “The real reason I wear the coif,” she said with a smirk as she covered her red still-damp hair. Cullen quirked an eyebrow at his Inquisitor. “You bathed?”

“Can’t go to dinner smelling like a sparring match. Do you know the ruckus it would cause, if your soldiers knew Leliana and I sparred? The Chargers alone would drive us to distraction, trying to find out when and where we practiced.”

“That… is a very good point,” he said slowly. “Having seen it once myself, I would be eager for another opportunity.”

Evelyn and Leliana shared a smile, and the Nightingale gestured to the door. “We arrived together, we should depart together.”

Cullen followed the women out the door, pondering the bizarre turn his day had taken. He suspected the next time he saw either of these women, their carefully crafted masks would be solidly in place. The idea saddened him more than he expected.

“I’m leaving for the Exalted Plains the morning after next,” Evelyn was saying as they made their way down the seemingly endless stairs. The report from Harding had finally arrived that afternoon, and she only delayed her departure long enough for Josephine’s bothersome state dinner. They discussed who she was taking with her and why – definitely not Blackwall, he was odd around Orlesians for some reason – and her anticipated route and time away. The conversation was easy and candid, but comfortable somehow. Cullen stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned to his lady Inquisitor.

“This,” he said as she came to a halt beside him. “This is what I meant. This is the person I would rather see than the endless masks.”

“Our masks are necessary, Commander,” Leliana said gently from just over Evelyn’s shoulder. “Even yours; we can none of us risk giving too much away. Trevelyan simply has more of them to juggle.”

Evelyn gave Leliana a mock frown, her amusement easily bleeding through. “But not for everyone, Leliana. Not all the time. I must be your Inquisitor and you my Spymaster, my Nightingale; and Cullen our Commander. But Cullen’s point is true; we must learn to put them aside, lest we forget who we are trying to protect.

She reached up then, gently cupping his cheek in her hand, cheeks reddening prettily. “Do not let me forget.”

She tossed her hair into place and pushed past him, kicking open the door. “Fine, Commander,” she said as she strode into the Hall, pausing on the steps to the throne she had confessed that afternoon to be a gaudy uncomfortable wreck. “I concede your point. You are obviously the most fit to command our forces, and if I lacked the insight to appreciate it, let it not be said I cannot admit to my own failings.”

Cullen swept her a deeply formal bow. “The Inquisitor is too kind.”

She nodded briefly, jerked her head for Leliana to follow, and strode off to the undercroft to thank Harritt personally for yet another repair to her left hand dagger grip.  
Cullen found himself standing at the table they had breakfasted that morning. How the world had changed since then.

 

*

 

She appeared suddenly again that evening, long enough after dinner that he was starting to second guess everything that had happened that day. Surely it was a one-time event?

She was sitting back on her heels at the top of his ladder as he extinguished his lamps and began his ascent to bed. She made no sound, but her lithe form was unmistakable in the candlelight. Cullen swallowed heavily.

“Do you have a moment?” She asked, and the doubt in her voice twisted in his chest.

“For you? Of course.”

Her answering smile as his face drew even with hers at the top of the ladder was like the sun rising.

“It doesn’t seem right not to tell you,” she said. Not yet comfortable with the idea of a conversation in his bedchamber, Cullen settled into his spot near the top of the ladder and laid down his books and lamp on the floor next to him as he listened.

“Leliana… told me about when she and Moira found you at the top of the Circle Tower. She didn’t go into detail, and I don’t want to press you into that conversation. But I couldn’t sleep another night without you knowing I knew.”

It wasn’t what he expected. The memory was the primary source of fuel for his nightmares; hearing it from Evelyn’s lips would likely spark a particularly brutal night. He couldn’t keep the disappointment from his face; he was anticipating much sweeter dreams after the day he’d had. “Its only fair,” she was saying, her gentle voice at complete odds with the assassin he had seen sparring just a few hours before, “that you have at least the same level of knowledge as I.”

Cullen shook his head, started to climb the rest of the way up the ladder to silence her. She placed a hand on his shoulder and he stilled at her touch as his heart exploded into a frenzy in his chest. “Please.”

His eyes slid closed as he listened, not trusting a look into her face. “Leliana gives great advice, I said earlier. Especially about love. Did you know about her and Moira? You must have seen it, coming down from the Circle Tower. Leliana told me they couldn’t keep their hands off each other as they left, they were so happy to have escaped.”

Cullen had noticed it, although the memory was weak in the face of everything else he had seen. He vaguely recalled being upset by their open affection, as if their love should have been tempered by the wreckage around them rather than rejoicing in their survival. He was young then, though, and damaged beyond what he thought could be repaired. He had fled to Kirkwall rather than trying to face it. Fat lot of good that had done him.

Evelyn seemed to take his silence as agreement. After a long pause, her voice continued in barely a whisper. “And I only say that so you understand this. Leliana understands love – and how easy it is to get it tangled up in duty. Which is why she convinced Josie to clear my schedule for the day. She doesn’t want me to make the same mistakes she and Moira made.”

The implications came slowly. Leliana wanted them to spend the day together… because Evelyn loved him? His eyes snapped open, desperate to find the truth in her gaze.  
But Evelyn the Rogue was gone. Whether she’d slipped out the window or managed to get around him on the ladder without him feeling her passage he could not say – trying to imagine how she’d managed either was wildly inappropriate and would likely resurface in his dreams.

 

 *

 

 Josephine made up for the Inquisitor’s day of freedom by attaching to her backside the day after. All Cullen wanted was ten seconds alone with the woman, an opportunity to access the truth in her eyes. It was resolutely denied him.

They were seated next to each other at dinner, what would normally be a blessing. He felt her fingers against his wrist a dozen times over the course of the meal, in polite entreaties for clarification of a point of conversation or for a lump of sugar, which was passed and received with smiles so slight only Leliana could see. But her beside him denied him the chance to _look_   at her, and he found himself aggravated by the smiles Evelyn exchanged with Leliana, the Nightingale occupying the seat he’d desired.

The Orlesian dignitary they were dining with that night – Cullen resolutely refused to remember the clout’s name – completely controlled the conversation, and left Cullen to his own thoughts. When it was, blessedly, time to escape and leave the politics to Josephine and Vivienne (and the resolutely masked Inquisitor), Cullen rose from his seat first. Evelyn moved to rise directly after him, and he stopped to take her chair and lent her his hand. She didn’t need it – the woman was liquid grace – but her fingertips on his wrist for the umpteenth time that night were electric. As she turned away from the table, her demurely downturned eyes rose to meet his own, and for one brief, blessed moment, it was there.

She was terrified. Vulnerable. She had given him something he could have used to hurt her, if he was a lesser man. If he didn’t feel the same. She had put herself out on a limb and then fled before she could hear whether or not she would be made a target.

Suddenly she made sense. Her ability to vanish in a crowd or seemingly into thin air, her dizzying array of masks and countless defense mechanisms. Even her fighting style spoke of it. Deep down, his lady Inquisitor, his Evelyn Trevelyan, was afraid. Of what, he didn’t know. Nor care, not right now. It didn’t matter. She had found a way to show him the root of all her quirks, and he loved her for it.

He met her eyes, held her stare for as long as he dared in such company, and then smiled as he lifted her hand to his lips. “I thank you for your excellent company, my lady,” he murmured against her knuckles, thrilling to see the goose bumps rise on her arm as his lips moved against her hand. “I wish you safe travels, a successful venture, and a _swift_ journey home. We all eagerly await your return.”

Her eyes suddenly swelled with tears, but were blinked away in an instant as he was blinded by her answering smile. “Thank you, Commander, the pleasure was all mine,” she said in a perfectly courteous reply. He was almost sure no one else heard the _my_ she breathed before his title. Her Commander.

Her mask settled back into place, but for the first time he realized his was, as well. He bowed over her hand and released it, taking his leave and sinking immediately into a blissful sleep within moments of returning to his chamber.

Somehow, despite staying up half the night with Josephine and the Orlesian snot, she was armored and away before he even woke the next morning. He climbed immediately to the battlements and gazed out into the mountain passes, catching just a quick glimpse of what might have been horses slipping out of sight.

 

*

 

It took him fully a week to pin down Leliana. He finally managed it by accident, in the steep stairwell leading into the undercroft. “A moment of your time, Nightingale?”

She frowned and jerked her head for him to follow, leading him into Evelyn’s tower. “No titles here, remember?” She said as he looked around, confused, at the empty chamber. He hadn’t really looked around during his other visit to the Inquisitor’s quarters, his gaze having been focused on the Inquisitor herself. But the rooms themselves were warmly appointed and fairly screamed of their occupant; what he knew of Evelyn was spoken of by every book, shouted by the textures, whispered in the colors and patterns.

“She told me. Of you and Moira. Said it was only fair. A 'you know I know' kind of thing.”

Leliana cracked a smile, albeit sad. “Well then, you know I know you know.”

They both laughed, although there was no joy in the sound.

“How did it go wrong?” he asked, and realized he wasn’t breathing as he waited to see if she would answer.

“She loved us both,” she answered finally. “She was a lot like our Evelyn, in spirit at least. Saw the good in everyone, brought out their strengths and minimized their weaknesses. She made us better, made us a team that could save the world. Did save the world.

“Alistair was new to love. I was not. While he pined and deliberated, I acted. She was everything to me; my confidante, my lover, my battle sister, my best friend. She called me Lana…. And she didn’t just love me – she let me love her. She laid down her burden every night and didn’t pick it up again until the morning. She walked away from the Blight when she walked into camp.

“Until the night the archdemon found us. Found them. Wardens can sense darkspawn, hear the archdemon. But the reverse is also true. And they were the only Grey Wardens in Ferelden – an easy target. We had civilians in camp, traders – they stayed with us thinking themselves safe when being near the Wardens only made them a target.

“That night was the night duty severed us. Moira knew, then, that she would never be free. Even if they ended the Blight, she would always feel the darkspawn crawling the lands deep beneath her, feel their feverish search for another old god to raise up as an archdemon. And someday she would hear the Calling, and it would pull her to her death. And no one could possibly understand that.

“No one but Alistair. He could share that burden with her. They joined the Wardens less than a year apart; when Alistair felt the Calling she could go with him to the deep roads knowing her own Call was close on their heels.

“She told me this. Told me all of this. We all knew how Alistair felt – and how she felt torn between us. And so she freed me, to find my own future. When Justinia became Divine I was free to travel back to Orlais and become her Left Hand. Moira gave me everything I ever asked of her. She never withdrew her love; only her commitment.

“I remember the night she and Alistair finally fell into bed together. Have you ever heard the word ‘compersion’? It means the opposite of jealousy, when you’re stupidly happy that the person you love is being loved. When you see two good friends fall in love or tear up at a wedding. That man floated for three days, and all I could do was rejoice for him, because he was a dear friend and I knew exactly how good he had it.”

She trailed off, lost in the memory. Cullen was a little taken aback by the flood of words, far more information than he had ever gotten – or expected to receive – from the normally taciturn Nightingale.

“Evelyn said that story was the reason she spent the day with me, the reason she fought so hard to show me she could take off her mask.” It was the only thing he could think to say, the whole reason behind his inquiry.

Leliana smiled a bit absently. “I told her,” she said, her voice trailing off as she wearily rubbed a hand across her brow, as if trying to wipe away the memory of sorrow. “I told her that the worst thing she would ever live through in this world was your wedding to someone else.”

The Nightingale walked slowly to the stairs as Cullen sifted through her words. “I meant it,” she said over her shoulder as she started the long trek out of the tower. “Corypheus be damned, I would rather drop another avalanche on Haven than relive Moira’s wedding to Alistair.” Her voice was disappearing down the stairs. Cullen was reluctant to follow, but felt odd standing alone in Evelyn’s bed chamber. He compromised by trailing after, letting her outpace him. “I was happy for them both, deliriously happy. But joy for someone else will never heal your own broken heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor's tower in game has a peaked roof. I think that's dumb. Also, it is more convenient to my story if it is flat like the rest of the towers.  
> And, from someone who used to work on roofs: The pitch of that thing would be a BEAR to shingle. Makes way more sense to have it flat and accessible. Great watch tower.


	9. Fallen

It was two hours past full dark when they rode in, the clatter of hooves across the cobblestones of the long bridge alerting everyone in Skyhold to their arrival. Cullen heard the clarion cry of welcome and burst from his office, springing to the wall to see her for himself, verify she was finally home. They were overdue – expected some hours after noon, not a scant three hours before mid of night – and dread had long since seeped into his heart. Looking at their progress, he instantly knew something was, indeed, wrong: the tight formation of the riders, the stiffness of their stances in their saddles; he had been in enough similar situations to see someone was injured. While it was possible they had all sustained slight injuries, more likely was one of their number was more severely wounded and had ordered the others to help conceal it. An order that would only come from one of them.

He glanced up at the moonless sky. Their riding in after dark was no accident.

Cullen strode to the war room. If Evelyn was injured and wanted it hidden, they would bring her there.

That, and Cullen didn’t trust himself to meet them in the courtyard.

Leliana and Josephine beat him there, but only just. Leliana’s eyes showed the same tension Cullen felt. She’d seen the same signs he had, then – or received word from a raven. Josephine was good-naturedly complaining of the late hour, and how slinking in after dark wasn’t as good for morale as a midday victorious return. She was oblivious, then – Leliana had said nothing to her, which indicated there had been no advanced word.

Cullen nodded to Leliana, whose mouth tightened slightly. She didn’t like surprises. They let Josephine keep her innocence as long as possible.

Minutes passed, and the door burst open behind them. Lady Inquisitor Evelyn Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste, entered under her own power, and Cullen felt the tension melt away. Cassandra was close on her heels, and surprisingly, Solas strode at her other flank. Though he had never been in a war council before, and Cullen wasn’t sure he’d even been in the room, Solas appeared wholly uninterested in his surroundings. The mage’s face was drawn with concern and he had eyes only for the lithe woman beside him.

Evelyn was dressed as Cullen rarely saw her – in the dark leather armor she worse afield, the blacks and rich reds that marked her as her own assassin. Her twin blades were sheathed on her back, barely visible under the heavy cloak she wore when travelling. Cassandra and Solas were both also dressed for battle – and soaked to the elbows in blood. This was normal for Cassandra, but Solas generally stayed free of gore.

Varric had been the fourth in their party – where was he? News of Varric Tethras falling in battle, even if exaggarated, would likely be terrible for book sales. Cullen could easily see the dwarf insisting that their entrance be done under the cover of night, to give him a chance to recover before any bad publicity leaked. His fear took another step back, and Cullen felt like he could breathe again.

The three road-weary arrivals paused in the middle of the room. Josephine began to speak a welcome as the war room door, on a slow spring, ponderously swung closed. As the latch clicked – the room was magically sealed to prevent any sound from slipping out – Cassandra leapt past Cullen to the table, sweeping it clear of maps and markers. “Help him!” she hissed, and Cullen spun back to Solas.

The mage was still focused on Evelyn, but now he had both arms around her, keeping her off the floor. Her head was tilted back, the hood of her cloak slipped to her shoulders as she slowly fainted to the floor.

Cullen crossed swiftly to her and swept her into his arms, spinning to deposit her on the cleared war table. Leliana and Solas quickly stepped to the table, pulling back Evelyn’s cloak and exposing a dozen slashes through her armor. Solas’ hands began to glow as he did what healing he could. Josephine rushed to a small cabinet in the corner, pulling out several potions kept there for just such a reason – Leliana planned for everything.

Cullen stepped back to give the others room to work, not trusting the shake in his hands. Evelyn’s face was exposed now, and he could _see_ ; the thick black circles around her eyes, the pallor of her skin. She had fallen.

“A rift opened not five miles from here,” Cassandra was saying. “She was taken by surprise. She was sneaking around me, passing behind me to flank the demon I fought and a Terror sprang from the ground beneath my feet. He knocked her prone and then was upon her before any of us could intervene. Solas knocked the damned thing away and worked to revive her while Varric and I finished it off. She awoke long enough to close the rift, and we moved her as far as we dared before setting camp. When she awoke again, it was in a fury – she said we were too close to Skyhold to stop, and _ordered_ us to break camp and return here. She would listen to no one. If we had been attacked again….”

Cassandra was glaring at Cullen, as if the Inquisitor’s actions were somehow his fault.

“It’s not all hers,” Solas said suddenly, before Cullen had a chance to ask anything of Cassandra. Cullen glanced up to see what the mage was referring to, and saw Josephine staring at him in horror. He glanced down at himself and froze; he was covered in blood. The few seconds Evelyn had been in his arms had left his armor smeared in gore.

Much of it bore the hallmarks of demon blood – the smell, viscosity, and color were all unmistakable – but much of it did not. He felt his stomach drop, and fought to keep his expression clear of dread. “Yes,” he agreed, to calm Josephine. “It is definitely demonic.”

And then Evelyn was awake, an instant transition into thrashing consciousness. She was fighting to reach the daggers on her back, stymied by Leliana’s reflexes and her own body weight trapping them in their sheathes. Cullen instantly remembered the night she’d been found after losing Haven, and rushed to the table near her head. He leaned near her ear and murmured, “Shh, you’re safe. Evelyn, you’re safe.” He reached out and grasped her wrists, freeing Leliana as the Inquisitor quickly calmed.

“Cullen,” she said, immediately dropping her arms. “Cullen?”

“Yes,” he replied, surprised. “You’re back in Skyhold. You made it. You’re safe.”

A smile ghosted across her face and she fell asleep as quickly as she had woken up.

Solas leaned forward again, his hands glowing as he sealed what wounds she had reopened in her semiconscious panic. As his eyes met Cullen’s, the Commander was shocked by the unreadable expression on the mage’s face. Relief and grief, sadness and rage, and something deeper simmering behind it all, his features at war.

“Has the surgeon been called?” he asked, baffled by Solas’ and Cassandra’s reactions.

“She would not allow it,” Cassandra replied, furious. “But since she is no longer awake to gainsay it-“

“She is stable,” Solas said, interrupting her. “She is in no immediate danger. The surgeon always visits her and anyone who traveled with her upon their return, and his visit in the morning will come soon enough for any more healing she may need.”

Cullen and Cassandra both protested Solas’ proposal – loudly.

Josephine was standing at Evelyn’s shoulder, carefully dribbling a potion past her lips, watching for her unconscious swallow before continuing. There were tears in the ambassador’s eyes, and she seemed intent on ignoring the conversation around her.

Leliana cut them all off. “He is right,” she said coldly. “It will do more harm than good to call him tonight. We must give her time to rest, time for the potion to work, and allow the surgeon to visit in the morning. Evelyn understood this – news that the Herald was injured cannot leave this room. She took a calculated risk by travelling on, and intentionally returned under cover of darkness for the good of the Inquisition. We must respect that, and not undermine the sacrifice she was willing to make. The Inquisitor did NOT come in battered and bleeding tonight, and she MUST be seen tomorrow. I will have Lady Vivienne see to her tomorrow after the surgeon visits, help her be made presentable. You all know I am right in this.”

The silence was deafening.

“There is a passageway from this room to the base of her tower,” Leliana continued. “Until this moment only she and I knew of it. I trust your discretion in this.” The Spymaster crossed the room to the corner near the door, the west wall when Evelyn’s chambers lay east of the war room. She struck a latch hidden in a gap in the mortar, and two square sections of wall gave way, falling to either side of the newly exposed doorway. “We will take her upstairs without waking her.”

Solas moved away from the table, nodding consent to Cullen, who stepped quickly into the space the elf vacated. He swept the unconscious Inquisitor into his arms, and quickly crossed to where Leliana stood by the door, stepping into the narrow passage. Leliana closed the portal behind them, the stone forming a kind of farmer’s door with the latch in the middle. Cullen pressed his back to the wall and Leliana ducked under Evelyn’s body to pop up in front and lead the way. The passageway was narrow – Cullen had to walk awkwardly sideways to pass through with his precious cargo.

But it was also lit, which was surprising to him – every twenty paces or so, a small oil lamp was burning low in a slight recess in the wall. “Oil is cheap,” Leliana said softly, guessing his thoughts without glancing back, “and the walls are solid. There are no gaps here, no cracks in the stone to leak light and give us away.”

“Is this always lit?”

“Only when she is here, or expected to arrive,” Leliana answered. “The oil in these lamps can burn for weeks with almost no fumes, and it is no matter for her or I to steal down and refill them if we notice they are burning low. This was an ideal solution to the problem of us sneaking away to train. Only she and I knew of it, though many of my people suspect a passage from the Inquisitor’s quarters exists.”

While it turned several corners, the passageway branched only once – a narrow stair leading down to the undercroft, as Leliana explained as they passed it by. It was not a long walk, and they quickly emerged from a second stacked square portal in a corner of the basement level beneath Evelyn’s tower. Cullen hadn’t felt the downhill slope, but he supposed it would help disguise the destination of the tunnel. Leliana carefully sealed the doorway behind him, and Cullen was glad to be able to walk forwards again as he shrugged his shoulders against the Inquisitor’s limp weight. The long flights of stairs above him were daunting; the woman in his arms was a remarkably light burden, but the trek to the top would be exhausting. Leliana prudently avoided mentioning the strain, and Cullen resolutely ignored it, not feeling the drain until Leliana pushed open the heavy door at the top and Cullen shouldered into Evelyn’s chambers. The fire in the hearth was low but welcoming and warm – the Inquisitor had been expected for hours. Leliana indicated the rug in front of the hearth – “lay her there.”

It was impossible not to imagine the same action under different circumstances: carrying Evelyn across her chamber to lay her down gently in front of the fire on a summer night chilled by the mountain air. The view from here was incredible– the moonless night leaving the stars wild and unobscured. Cullen stubbornly avoided looking at the Inquisitor’s bed.

“I’ll get her cleaned up and put to bed,” Leliana told him as he stepped back from Evelyn’s sleeping form. “You need to be seen elsewhere, and immediately. Without all the blood.” She gestured at his smeared breastplate and then pointed at the door on the east wall, behind him.

He followed her suggestion, head turned lightly to the right to keep the white-draped four poster out of his line of sight and help mute the situation-inappropriate visions his imagination was drumming up. The doorway led into a long but narrow washroom, one end completely dominated by a huge soaking tub. The idea of hauling enough water up here to fill it gave Cullen completely new respect for the women staffing the keep.

“There’s a rain catch just below the lip of the wall, on the east side of this tower,” Leliana said from the other room, again reading his thoughts. “We had it installed because Evelyn refused to let anyone cart water up here. There’s one on my tower, too, actually. Brilliant thing.”

Cullen turned his back from the tub – full of steaming water, likely drawn as soon as the Inquisitor’s horse hit the cobblestones of the bridge. He found a small basin and used it to clean the worst of the gore from his armor, trusting the moonless night to hide the rest until he could get to his own tower and give it a thorough cleaning. He rinsed and refilled the basin with hot water from the bath and carried it into the main room for Leliana to clean the Inquisitor.

He found Evelyn sitting up, cross legged on the rug, weakly helping Leliana strip her of tattered layers of armor. The hair behind one ear was matted and dark, the likely source of the blood he needed to go meticulously scrub out of his armor. His throat clenched at the thought. Cullen set the basin down silently and made for the stairs, suddenly needing to be anywhere but here. He paused when he heard his name in her voice. He didn’t turn around. “Thank you,” she said. He bowed his head in response and fled.

The smell of her blood filled his nose as he trudged down the stairs. She was fine, he told himself. Head wounds always bleed. She’d gotten a good healing potion into her and Solas had seen to her wounds. The surgeon and Vivienne would take care of any residual problems after she’d had a good night’s sleep. She was fine. Really.

The shortest route to his tower cut through the alcove Solas had claimed. The mage was already spotlessly clean. He stood between Cullen and the exterior door.

“She didn’t mean to say it,” the mage’s voice was conversational but pitched low, in case any of Leliana’s agents stood in the halls above them. “Head wounds do that, make you say any number of things; I’m sure you know. She was in and out of consciousness, we had to strap her to that damn horse, but she gave us an order. We were to return straightaway to Skyhold. Cassandra argued, insisted we were safer off the road, with Varric and myself to keep watch. That’s when she said it. She wasn’t safe, she told us. Wouldn’t feel safe until she saw you.”

Cullen could feel his throat tighten. Cassandra’s and Solas’ anger toward him suddenly made perfect sense.

Solas stood aside without another word, and Cullen passed the stout door into the clear, starlit night. A few dozen paces across the interior wall and Cullen retreated into the serenity of his office. Except Varric was in his chair.

Vaguely, Cullen realized he had never asked about the fourth member of Evelyn’s team.

“Talk to her,” the dwarf said by means of greeting.

“And tell her what,” Cullen answered, suddenly angry, “that whatever she feels for me isn’t worth her life? That if she has to choose between the safety of her team and whatever _this_ is between us that _this_ needs to end?”

“Being with you was _a_ reason, yes,” the dwarf said slowly. “But she had a point; arriving in the middle of the night to hide her injuries was the best play she could make for _the Inquisition_ , the rest of us be damned. And you needed to know there was a rift not five miles from here – what would happen if one opened up in the Keep? There’s no rhyme or reason to where the blasted things show up. No, she made the right call, and we all know it.

“The problem is, we all love her. Every damn one of us, from the lowest stableboy she slips sweets to all the way up to the Spymaster in her tower, and every person in between. Knuckles could have half the men in this place with a crook of her little finger, and a goodly chunk of the women too. Shit, if she had pointy ears even Chuckles would be standing in line. But she chose you.”

Varric shook his head. “Every last one of us knows about you two, Curly,” he said, and Cullen scowled absently at the unwanted nickname. “Everyone in Skyhold is talking about how you feel for each other – except you. Fix that.”

Cullen searched frantically for an answer as the dwarf – obviously road weary – pulled himself out of Cullen’s chair, dusting himself off and muttering “too old for this shit,” as he made his way to the door. He reached up and slapped Cullen’s shoulder companionably on the way past. “And clean yourself up, man, you look terrible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because of course there would be secret passages.  
> Also, I think my little assassin rogue would have found a way to dye her clothes black, regardless of the options available in-game.


	10. Rogues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I rearrange the dialogue we all know from the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varric's got a little Captain in him.

Varric had a nickname for everyone.

Cullen was painfully aware that he was referred by the dwarf almost exclusively by the diminuitive “Curly.” And while he didn’t like it, he could see where the dwarf got it. He could see the source for most of Varric’s nicknames, honestly. Vivienne’s Iron Lady was obvious. Cassandra was Seeker, probably the least inventive of invectives but given their history she was lucky her nickname wasn’t a four letter word. Nightingale and Ruffles made up the rest of the war room, and Iron Bull was affectionately dubbed ‘Tiny’. Cole was the Kid, Blackwall became Hero, and Sera was Buttercup. Dorian’s nickname, Sparkler, gave Cullen no end of mirth once he worked out all the different implications; he and the Tevinter relentlessly teased one another over their chess matches. Solas’ “Chuckles” seemed ironic to Cullen, but he supposed the mage and rogue might have a different relationship outside the walls than they did on the road.

But for whatever reason, Varric had taken to calling the Inquisitor “Knuckles.” And despite her desperate war in the early days of the Inquisition against Varric’s  nicknames, she hadn’t been able to shake this one. The name baffled Cullen.

She was a dagger-wielding force of nature, and while it was possible that Varric was referring to her more brutal inclinations, she didn’t have a history of bare-knuckle fighting. Cullen hadn’t ever seen the woman throw a punch, or even indicate she knew how.

His first clue came when Cullen entered the tavern looking for Sutherland’s crew, having procured a few supplies for them and wanting to discuss in person what else the little company may need. The Commander noticed a little gathering at the bar, but didn’t pay it much mind until he had completed his business and was on his way back out. Varric was standing on the bar, stocking-footed out of respect to the barkeep standing stone-faced behind him. Cabot rarely showed any emotion, but his stoicism in the face of Varric’s antics was admirable.

Sera and Evelyn were laughing at whatever was happening in Varric’s story – hooting, more like. Sera was clinging to her stomach like she was in pain, and Evelyn had tears streaming down her face as she clung to her barstool, launching into a new wave of hysterics whenever she looked up at Varric. The cause of all this was standing on the bar like he had conquered it, one foot propped up in the air as if ascending a stair, his hands on his hips and head thrown back in feigned arrogance.

Everyone nearby was similarly affected, making the Inquisitor’s response fit the scene if not the expectation. Cullen had never seen the woman so far gone, and secretly prided himself on helping her lose the carefully crafted façade she normally masked herself with.

Sera weakly lifted a hand to point at the blank space beneath Varric’s posed foot. “Her… her… No!” And collapsed to the floor in a helpless fit of giggles. Varric gamely jumped onto her newly vacated barstool and then down to the floor, pulling his boots on as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. And maybe nothing had; Cullen didn’t know how the trio of rogues normally spent their time.

“Curly!” Varric called happily, waving for the Commander to join them. “Come have a drink with us.”

Cullen stepped closer to the little gathering as Evelyn fought for composure and Sera picked herself up off the floor, both of them still giggling as they wiped tears out of their eyes. “I appreciate the offer,” he replied, “but I was only here on a quick bit of business, and have another stop to make before I return to work. Cannot keep the Ambassador waiting, you know.”

Varric waved a hand. “Of course you can. Ruffles is too polite to complain if you’re a bit late. Just tell her you saw an opportunity to improve morale.”

Evelyn rubbed the base of her palms against her eyes, roughly drying them and stumbled toward Cullen. He put a hand out as if to catch her, and she leaned into it, laughing at herself now as much as at Varric’s story. “Yes! Stay!” she agreed, giving him a brilliant smile. “Today is RogueDay, we make it a point to meet in the tavern and tell stories if we’re not travelling.”

“RogueDay!” Sera cheered, lifting her glass. “Where we’re as likely to piss ourselves laughing as to actually talk shop.”

“Huzzah!” Varric and Evelyn agreed, and there was a general agreement amongst the few smiling bystanders. They’d obviously picked their ‘RogueDay’ appointment based on when the tavern would be emptiest.

Cullen smiled, honestly regretting his appointment. “Please forgive me. Perhaps I will clear my schedule for your next such party, if the invitation stands?”

“Oh, come on, Curly, you’re breaking Knuckles’ heart.”

Cullen felt himself flush, but Evelyn’s reaction was far stronger. “ _Varric_!” she hissed, slapping the dwarf in the chest with the flat of her hand, making a loud clap. Sera fell backward off her chair, pointing at the Inquisitor’s deep red face. Cullen felt curiosity outweigh his discomfiture, and made his query with a confused smile and a tilt of his head at the laughing dwarf. Evelyn had turned her back to them all and had dropped her forehead to the bar. Cabot, standing over her, poured her another of whatever she was drinking – it looked like the thick honey liquor – and cracked a rare smile.

“He doesn’t know,” the barstool next to Evelyn spoke, and Cullen was startled to see Cole there. But, of course, he would come to RogueDay… the other three were likely trying to draw him out.

Sera collapsed into another fit of hysterics. “Doesn’t know? _He doesn’t know?_ ”

Varric stepped forward, pure mischief on his face, and lifted one hand in a fist. He pointed to his knuckles and started to speak, glancing over his shoulder at the miserable Inquisitor. Evelyn looked up, saw Varric’s gesture, and leapt at the dwarf. Varric barely had time for the surprise to register on his face before she tackled him to the floor.

“Don’t you _dare_!” she cried, and rained open-handed blows on the dwarf who was now laughing too hard to defend himself.

Confused and feeling increasingly more out of place, Cullen nodded to Cabot behind the bar and let himself out of the tavern.

 

*

 

She appeared in his office the next day, asking to speak with him in private. Cullen was having a rare moment of solitude, having cleared his schedule for a few hours to get caught up on some necessary correspondences and not expecting any reports until much later in the afternoon. He said as much to the Inquisitor, but she gestured to the door. “The ramparts, maybe? I just always expect someone to burst in here, after the day we spent together.”

Cullen nodded consent, following her through the open door, confused by her manner.

They walked a bit in silence. He cast about for something to break the ice, finally making a comment about the weather.

Her mind was obviously elsewhere. “What?”

He flinched internally. “There was something you wished to discuss?” And then there it was: the words he had imagined from her mouth a hundred times in a thousand ways. She cared for him. The doubt in her eyes, the vivid fear he saw there scattered the dozens of perfect replies he had crafted in his head. Could he care for her in return?

“I could, I mean, I do,” he said, rushing to reassure her.

“What’s stopping you?” she asked, and he could see the layers of meaning in the question.

“You’re the Inquisitor,” he replied gently. “We’re at war. And you…” You could have anyone, he thought to himself. Why on earth would I assume you would choose me? “I didn’t think it was possible,” he finished.

He found himself inching toward her, watching the doubt recede as he addressed each layer of her fears. He didn’t want her to choose him over the good of herself or the Inquisition. He didn’t want to overstep his bounds. Nothing that was stopping him had anything to do with how he felt about her. And she could see it.

“And yet I’m still here,” she whispered.

“So you are,” he agreed, stepping close enough that his intent could not be mistaken. “It seems too much to ask.”

“So don’t ask,” she said, her fingertips landing on his hips as she leaned forward to meet him.

“Commander?” came a voice behind him. “You wanted a copy of Sister Leliana’s report.”

He wasn’t expecting it for hours. He felt Evelyn withdraw, pulling away awkwardly; he saw her face struggle to compose itself into a flat mask and he raged at it.

“What,” he said to the interloper, not really a question.

He was still talking, somehow. He was awash in a sea of red in Cullen’s eyes. Cullen was trying to think of some way to shake some sense in the damned fool, to send him on his way without further upsetting Evelyn. The messenger finally looked up, met his eyes, and took stock of the situation. Varric had said the entire keep was talking about him and the Inquisitor, and the look in the messenger’s eyes was all the validation Cullen needed. The man fled.

The moment couldn’t be lost. He spun back to Evelyn, who was already politely making excuses for him. He stepped back to her, pressing her back to the crenelated wall, and kissed her silent. The moment before she responded was a perfect misery: the feel of her body against him, her mouth on his, and the overwhelming conviction he had just let his temper get away with him and absolutely ruined any chance he might have with this woman. But then her surprise faded, her lips softened, and he felt her hands return to his hips, pulling him gently closer to her.

His temper spent, he pulled away to apologize. He had committed to himself to never force the issue with her, and here he was kissing her on the ramparts in plain view of the passing patrols and everyone who cared to see.

“That was what I wanted,” she replied, her voice smokey and her eyes bright. Any sign of fear was gone.

Cullen exhaled his relief. “Oh. Good.”

Pressure from her fingertips drew him close again, and he watched her eyes flutter closed as she tipped her chin up for another kiss. His heart rattled against his rib cage as he let his arms close around her and lowered his mouth to meet hers. She tasted of honey – likely she’d stopped at the tavern for some liquid courage before coming to see him – and beeswax, over a faint salty smokiness that he found intoxicating. Her hair drifted across her eyes and it smelled of rosemary and mint and sunshine, wholly unexpected but unmistakable.

The sounds of the battlements faded, the metallic footsteps of the patrols disappearing and the wind in his ears playing second fiddle to the sound of her breath, the tiny sounds she made when he ran his hands down her back, the hum of appreciation when first their tongues met.

They came up for air and she shifted, burying her face in heavy fur of his pauldrons and wrapping her arms tight around his waist. He held her as tightly as he dared, against the hard metal of his breastplate, his left arm wrapping her shoulders, his right hand pressed into the small of her back. 

“Maker’s breath,” he gasped. “I could lose a whole afternoon to your lips.”

She laughed weakly, still out of breath. That the woman he watched win an impossibly long duel with the Nightingale could be rendered breathless in his arms was a monumental boost to Cullen’s ego.

“Oh, _everyone_ will speak of this,” she said, although he could tell there was no regret in her tone, only trepidation.

He chuckled. “Everyone already does, according to Master Tethras.”

Her breathy laugh curled into a growl at the mention of Varric. “Please don’t let us speak of him.”

Cullen pulled back slightly to look at her, seeing she was again beat red. “What was it that so upset you yesterday?”

If possible, her blush got deeper. “Please, no. Not now. I will die of embarrassment right here at your feet if you make me speak of it.”

Cullen laughed and pulled her back into his shoulder. “Alright, no dying on my ramparts. Forget I mentioned it.”

“If only I could,” she muttered miserably, and he laughed again.

“You are taking too much enjoyment from my humiliation,” she said, running her left hand up his chest to curl around the side of his throat, fingertips against his jaw.

“I beg to differ, my Lady,” he replied. “The source of my joy is the beauty in my arms, regardless of the color of her cheeks.”

“Flatterer,” she said, but she grinned at the compliment. Pulling herself up on tip toe, she kissed him again, a gentle brush that momentarily was more, before pushing away and straightening her hair. “We _will_ lose an afternoon at this rate. And I have yet to pack for tomorrow.”

Cullen sighed. “I forgot you were leaving – the Hinterlands again, yes?”

She put up her hands to forestall him. “Let’s not ruin this by speaking of business. I want to remember you just like this. Mussed and flushed and windblown.”

He self-consciously ran his hands over his hair to smooth it back into place as she laughed. “It will be a short trip. We have… something to take care of… before we leave for the Storm Coast with Hawke.”

Cullen was curious, but respected her wish not to speak of it. “Will you… spare me a moment of your time when you return?”

Her smile twisted slightly, into something far less innocent than he had seen on her face thus far. “Oh, I plan to fully monopolize as much of your attention as humanly possible when I return.” With a smirk, she gave him a full head-to-toe once-over that would have rendered him red-faced and mute if not for the ace up his sleeve. As she turned to go, he reached out and caught her hand, bringing it up to his mouth. He carefully folded her fingers over his and pressed the knuckles of her first two fingers against his lips.

She instantly flared scarlet but froze, unconsciously biting her bottom lip as she stared up at him. Emboldened, he met her eyes and gently ran his teeth over the highest joint. Her eyes fluttered shut as her knees buckled and she tried to snatch her hand away. Cullen kept her hand trapped in his and wrapped his free arm around her, drawing her close before she could stumble. He held her for a moment, until she stood a bit straighter and caught her breath, pressing a kiss against the top of her head as she pushed away.

“I suppose that answers my question,” he said, a bit smugly, and was rewarded with the dull sound of her palm against his breastplate as she turned and fled.

 

*

 

She took Bull and Dorian with her and Varric when she left the next morning, a configuration he had not seen before. The hulking Quanari seemed inordinately pleased with the venture, lifting Evelyn onto her horse with a florish as she laughed prettily in the courtyard. All of them but Varric had extra weapons surreptiously jutting from their packs, glowing with a different configuration of runes than the ones they had strapped to their bodies. Cullen knew he could ask Dagna what was special about those weapons, but wasn’t convinced he would like the answer.

He was right.

 _“Dragons?”_ he choked at the arcanist’s explanation. “They had a set of weapons specially made to combat _dragons_?”

Dagna grinned impishly. “Sort of. I mean yes. But only sort of. I had to come up with a way to enhance Bianca without actually damaging the integrity of the design. I can absolutely understand why he named her, she’s one of a kind. I ended up putting the enhancements on a new set of arms, so that when he wants an edge on something else we can simply swap out the components rather than try to duplicate the crossbow.”

Cullen stormed off, barely managing to thank her for the information before thundering up the stairs to Leliana’s tower. The room emptied as he entered.

She was expecting him. “Not here,” she said. “We can discuss this after we’ve met with Josie for our status updates.”

He let the anger run through him all day. Any time he felt it ebb, it was immediately replaced with the same fear that gripped him when he saw her leave the Chantry to face the archdemon in Haven. No, anger was far preferable.

He and Leliana stayed in the war room after Josephine concluded their meeting that night. They waited until the door swung shut, standing on either side of the large map table in silence. Leliana crossed the room and threw the bolt on the door, and Cullen started in on her the second she turned back around.  
“You knew. You not only knew she was planning an expedition out to pick a fight with a dragon, you condoned it. You _helped her plan_.”

Leliana made a gesture, urging him to keep going, a kind of circular motion with her hand. It infuriated him. Everything he had thought of since leaving the undercroft to spur on his anger, he laid at her feet. When he felt himself start to repeat, he leaned against the table to catch his breath.

“Yes, I knew,” Leliana said mildly. “Yes, I helped her plan. No, I did not tell you. Yes, I agreed to take the brunt of your anger for her when you did find out. No, I don’t feel any guilt whatsoever. And, yes, I fully intend to have my revenge on her for making me stand here and get dumped on by an over-protective ass. So if you’re quite through, you can sit down and listen to why she’s doing what she’s doing.”

Cullen took a steadying breath and pulled over a stool from where it sat near the wall, roughly passing one to Leliana. They sat down on opposite sides of the war table, and Leliana ran through the list of things that he probably should have thought of himself.

It was far too late to try to bring Evelyn back – and she wouldn’t come even if they tried. She had invested a lot of time and energy into this little adventure and he could take some comfort in knowing she had a plan and the best possible team composition for a battle against a dragon; Varric and Dorian would be able to continue their assault while the beast was in the air, and Bull was more than enough of a distraction to keep the dragon away from the little assassin when the fight was on the ground.

The dragon needed to be brought down, both for tactical reasons and because marauding high dragons are very bad for morale. The practice in fighting dragons would be invaluable – especially given Corypheus’ draconic ally – and she had thoroughly scouted out the area this one inhabited.   
Lastly, and maybe most importantly, sailing into the Imperial Court a confirmed dragon slayer would do only positive things for her reputation. Evelyn was terrified of the courtly intrigue, being painfully uncomfortable with Orlesian politics. Anything she could do to calm her nerves before being thrown into it was of benefit to the entire Inquisition.

“You weren’t supposed to figure it out so quickly,” Leliana said when she’d finished with her list. “Definitely not within hours of her leaving, hopefully not for days. She hoped to have sent the message detailing her success before you thought to question Dagna, so that when you confronted me I could completely assuage your fears.” The Spymaster shot him one of her rare smiles. “It seems you are far more clever than we considered.”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “I will take that as a compliment, I suppose.”

“You’re afraid because of memories of Haven, yes?”

He looked at her sharply. He could see the empathy in her eyes as he nodded curtly. “I have seen a dragon brought down. I helped destroy the last archdemon. I know what she is up against, and I know she will succeed. I am sorry you are left to worry, but it was not her intent.”

He dropped his eyes to the table, at a loss for how to reply.

“She told you, then? You were seen on the ramparts, of course, so I assume she had the courage to find you and tell you of her feelings.”

His breathe shook as he slowly inhaled. “Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, we both did.”

“Good,” Leliana said, with a single nod of her head. “Then I can be safely revenged.”

Cullen frowned at her. “How so?”

Leliana had been leaning back on her stool, her feet kicked out to either side in front of her. She stacked her hands on the frontmost edge of her seat and leaned forward, bending her knees to balance her weight on the balls of her feet. “You wish to know of Varric’s nickname for her, no?”

He should have said no. He should have let it go. But he felt the grin split his face and knew any negation would be a painfully obvious lie. Leliana didn’t wait for him to verbalize a response, instead meeting his grin with one of her own.

“She is… ticklish,” the Spymaster said, in a conspiratorial whisper she would usually disdain. “Horribly so, in fact. Sera once asked her if there was any place on her that _wasn’t_ ticklish, and without thinking Evelyn said, “My knuckles,” and then turned the most incredible shade of scarlet. Of course Sera could not rest without knowing the whole story, and dragged her off to sit on the roof of the tavern. Varric came in to see Sera while they were discussing it, and overheard the whole story from the window when he tried to join them. It seems she is just as sensitive on her knuckles as she is anyplace else, but the sensitivity is of a… shall we say, more intimate nature?”

Cullen felt keenly aware of the heat on his ears, although Leliana kindly refrained from commenting. While he wasn’t fond of  being called Curly, at least the teasing dwarf wasn’t constantly making a sexual joke about him. He was on the verge of getting quite defensive on Evelyn’s behalf when Leliana derailed him.

“She is no innocent, Cullen,” she said, maybe a bit darkly. “If she has never been _in_ love before, that does not mean she has not _loved_. Just as I am quite sure you are no bumbling virgin yourself.”

The idea had honestly never crossed his mind. It should have, he reflected. She was a committed flirt, after all. She had all but told him about her and her contact with the Carta – Cadash. And he had caught the tail end of conversations with Dorian that would have made some of his soldiers blanch that she laughed off as nothing. The story Varric was telling in the tavern that day, now that he thought hard about Sera’s comments, was probably downright filthy. Leliana was watching him carefully, as if tracking his thoughts.

“If you were to hear her on the battlefield, you wouldn’t recognize your blushing Lady. It is only around you she loses her confidence, her composure. Your regard is more important to her than any other, and her fear of damaging it shackles her.”

There it was again. Fear.

“I see that in her,” he said softly. “This fear. It surprises me, the amount of fear she seems to continuously fight.”

Leliana smiled a bit sadly. “We are none of us without our flaws. We all have something that keeps us awake at night.”

Cullen thought, a bit uncomfortably, about the small box in his office, and the slowly worsening symptoms of lyrium withdrawal that the Nightingale surely knew of. She likely knew precisely what kept everyone awake at night, and why.

He stood to leave, sensing the conversation was at its end. “Please, Leliana – tell me when first you hear word from her.”

“I would not delay that information from you, Cullen,” she said gently.

As he walked slowly to the door, sinking into his thoughts, words drifted up from behind him. “She has a thing for hands, Commander,” she said with an unconcealable smile in her voice. “It will be better for you if she does not suspect you know.”

As he crossed the keep back to his own quarters, he realized – a bit ruefully – that he had been launching a steady attack on Evelyn’s knuckles for weeks. If he had known, then, he would never have dreamed… But now? He laughed to himself, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. His _blushing Lady_ wouldn’t know what hit her.


	11. Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chess meets 20 Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't bother writing the first chess match, but it did happen already.

Evelyn was prepared for a battle when she returned to Skyhold with only three days to spare before they were set to leave again. Cullen greeted her in the courtyard, congratulating her on her victory over the dragon in the Hinterlands and declaring a feast that night in her honor. After handing her down from her horse, he bowed over her hand, placing a perfectly formal kiss across her knuckles.

The whole inner circle, as she thought of the companions she took on the road with her and met with in the war council, was hard at work practicing their manners for court in preparation for the ball, and Cullen’s behavior was quickly cleared from suspicion.

But she couldn’t hide how her knees had gone weak when his lips had lingered on her skin.

Cullen had been told of their slaying the dragon within a day of the event transpiring, thanks to a swift raven and Leliana keeping her promise. He had gotten over his anger relatively quickly, and spent the rest of time she was gone missing her presence – and plotting a bit more than usual.

He caught up to her again during the feast, as she was impossible to miss: Bull had her on his shoulders as he called out toast after toast in her name and Varric told the – hopefully highly embellished – tale of their dragon slaying. As she slid down Bull’s back to the ground and made her escape, Cullen caught her elbow and led her quickly out of the crowd. “We have blessedly few obligations tomorrow. Might I challenge you to a rematch in the garden?”

She grinned, remembering their first chess match. “Absolutely.”

“Wonderful,” he replied, matching her smile. “I’ll be there at noon, that should give you ample time to recover.”

“Recover?” she scoffed. “You’ve never seen me drunk.”

Cullen bowed over her hand, feeling her tense up as she anticipated a kiss that did not come. He swallowed his smile before straightening up to meet her eyes. “My Lady is correct, my apologies. I have, however, seen _him_ drunk,” he indicated Bull, who was bearing down on them to reclaim the Inquisitor for another round of toasts.

Cullen stayed later than he anticipated, getting caught up in Varric’s retelling of their adventure and watching the dwarf fall into full storyteller mode. Dozens of tales spilled out of him, and Cullen knew at least three of them to be mostly true, from his own acquaintance with Hawke in Kirkwall. Actually, one of the stories, about the untimely if morbidly hilarious death of a particularly obnoxious nobleman, was so close to the circumstances surrounding his disappearance that Cullen began to suspect Varric might have actually played a part in the situation. Varric’s wink at him settled the suspicion into a likely fact. But the best story was the one Cullen recognized from the day he’d spent with Evelyn, the one she told right after making him promise never to tell Varric it was her. The details were identical – right down to the cut and color of the lingerie that was used to net the smuggler’s boat – except in Varric’s story it had been done to one of his rivals.

Evelyn stumbled into the garden a few minutes after noon the next day, dropping heavily into the open chair across from where Cullen had set up the board. “How is your head this morning, Lady Trevelyan?”

Evelyn grunted, carefully assessing who was within earshot. She had converted the garden into a near arboretum, and the thick plant life and gurgling fountains did almost as much to muffle conversations as the magic seal on the war room door. While anyone might pass by and overhear, there were not likely to be any solid issues with eavesdroppers here. Still, she mimicked his form of address. “I have felt better, Master Rutherford.”

“That’s one I haven’t heard in awhile.”

“Well, get used to it, mister I’m-not-the-Knight-Commander-anymore.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her and waited.

“Shit. I’m sorry, I’m being an ass. You were right, I was wrong. Bull got me shitfaced and at one point I was convinced I didn’t have legs. Noon _tomorrow_ might not have been enough time for me to recover.”

“Would you like to reschedule?” he asked reluctantly. The next day was looking to be busy indeed.

She waved a hand dismissively. “No, of course not. Maybe the brain work will help clear my head.”

Dorian appeared suddenly, a decanter of iced fruit juice and a heavy goblet of water. “Water first, then as much juice as you can stomach,” he said, ruffling Evelyn’s hair. “Glad to see your legs came back.”

“Ugh,” Evelyn dropped her head gently to the table, rattling the pieces on the board. Dorian laughed and stood to leave as quickly as he came. “Guard your boots, Commander.”

“You rat bastard,” she muttered weakly. “Next time I’ll _aim for them_.”

Cullen fought vainly to keep laughing, but Evelyn’s gutteral monologue of the violence she would inflict on Dorian’s shoes if she was ever again given the opportunity drove him quickly to failure. Hearing his laugh seemed to steel her resolve, and she launched into a fresh line of invectives as the grinning Tevinter waved his goodbyes and vanished.

“Yes,” she said  in defeat some minutes later. “Yes, I puked on his thrice-cursed shoes. And Varric’s. And Bull’s. But he was the only one who gives two tin shits about his fade-blasted boots.”

“Chess, my Lady Inquisitor?” Cullen asked mildly.

“E4,” she said bitterly, not lifting her head from the table, and Cullen moved the piece for her.

She fought her way through a terrible loss, and had the decanter of juice half finished when she demanded a rematch.

“A pity you’re so under the weather today,” Cullen said conversationally as he cleared the board, chivalrously giving her first move again. “I wished to liven up our game with a bit of a running wager, but it would be highly inappropriate for me to take advantage.”

She could not help but rise to his challenge. “And what wager would that be?”

“Take a piece, ask a question. Simple enough. But given the drubbing you just took, I could scarcely-“

“You are on,” she said, a wicked gleam in her eye. “What are the rules?”

“No real rules, just courtesy,” Cullen continued in the same mild tone, although inside he was jubilant. “Lose a piece, answer the question posed. I suppose we could add a layer of complexity, if you’re feeling up to it, and grant a reprieve if, after losing a piece, you take one with your next move. And, given the setting, a certain professionalism would have to be-“

“Oh, you are _so_ on,” she said, spinning the board. “I’ll even give you first move.”

Evelyn claimed first blood. “How many times have you seen me naked, Cullen?”

He choked a little, studied the board. He could easily take a pawn and escape the question. There was no doubt she knew this game as well as he did – they each lost as many as they won – and she would know whether he picked the reprieve over the strategy. “That is quite the opening shot, my Lady,” he said, fighting to keep his mild tone. He met her eyes deliberately as he made his move, choosing not to capture any of her pieces. A wide grin split her face, and she leaned forward to hear his answer.

“If you don’t count the scandalous chainmail you and Leliana wear for your training matches,” she laughed her denial, “then I must say it was only the once, and while you were in an abysmal state you weren’t fully unclothed.” She raised her hand to make a move. “I am assuming you meant only with my waking eyes?”

Her sudden tremor knocked her bishop off the board, and it bounced several feet away. She shot crimson and glared at him. Cullen chivalrously rose and handed it to her, and she reluctantly placed it on the board, following the once-touched-must-move rule they considered standard in their play.

Cullen won the next question. “The evening after you played hooky from your obligations and shadowed me around the keep…” he said by way of introduction, and Evelyn hovered her hand over a reprieve. “…how did you manage to _vanish_? By Andraste’s flaming sword, where did you go?”

Evelyn laughed again, and opted to answer. “That blessed hole in your roof,” she said as she poured the last of the juice from the decanter into her goblet and sank back into her chair. “It’s a bit of a leap, but I can take a running start and kick off the wall. If you’d looked up faster, you couldn’t have missed it. You know heights don’t bother me.”

Cullen shuddered at the memory of Evelyn and Leliana dropping over the edge of her tower roof after their training match, all those weeks ago. “I would rather not remember.”

Evelyn claimed the next question, and Cullen took his move – not capturing a piece – before she had a chance to ask. Her eyebrows rose to her hairline. “A bold move, sirrah,” she said. “Tell me, then: how many times have you been in my chambers?”

Cullen had been hoping for this one. “I must seek clarification. Here, in Haven, or on the road between?”

Her jaw fell open. “Yes. Any and all.”

Cullen nodded, considering. “I have quite frankly lost count.”

“ _What_.” she hissed, not a question.

“Well, there were the multiple times I’ve been asked to cart around your unconscious form. And the many days that lapsed on the road after Haven that I had to be physically removed from your bedside.” He gently took up her hand and rubbed his thumb across her knuckles at the memory, and studiously avoided her gaze as he did so. He could see goosebumps surge up her arm, like lightning from his touch. He heard her shuddering breath and continued in the same mild tone. “But I could likely count those if I were willing. But as Leliana and I have been using your rooms to meet in when you’re away-“

“ _What?_ ” she hissed, nearly rising from her seat. She was a rich shade of scarlet. “You insisted, my Lady Inquisitor,” he said, feigning confusion. “That was the one place we were to speak as equals, without titles or formalities. Where else could we safely speak of you?”

Evelyn started to make choking sounds. Cullen gently kissed her hand, smiling as she stiffened and was struck dumb, and then rose to refill her decanter with water from the nearby spring. He sent it back next to her with a flourish. “For your continued health, my Lady.”

He let her take the next piece as well, and she knew it. They were far enough into the game by now, and she was shaken enough, that she knew she was well and truly beaten. She would lose the match for sure, and now she was merely torn to see how much information she could dredge out of Cullen before she lost the wager as well.

“The reports you get,” she said, and he seriously considered sidestepping her question. “The ones with peoples’ names on them. What are they?”

He relaxed. She had asked him in a way that would sate her curiosity but not force him to betray any trusts. He smiled and took his move, conceding to the question. “I strive to know everyone under my command,” he said by way of response. “I know it is a vain hope, but it is my constant goal. Risks are taken more carefully when the forces you push across the table in the war room have names, wives, children, dreams.”

Evelyn’s face fell. This was not was she had expected. “Sometimes, it is brought to my attention that the men and women under my command have some sort of extraordinary circumstance that needs attended to. A birth, a death, a sickness may require a leave of absence or a special dispensation. Any number of things. I make it a point to make it my business.”

Evelyn stared at him wordlessly. Minutes ticked by. Cullen met her eyes, watching the emotion fill them and then war across her face. “You shame me,” she said finally. “I know they have names, know the Inquisition is made of _people_ but it never crossed my mind that you would take such a personal stake in it.”

“I have heard many stories,” he said gently in response, “of gold pressed into palms of hungry children, or wedding rings retrieved from thieves, or a week’s worth of food delivered to a refugee camp… I strive to do here what you are doing across the rest of Thedas.”

Evelyn roughly palmed her eyes, rubbing them dry. “Augh, were we not in public…”

Cullen laughed. “You will not tempt me to waste a question asking you to finish that statement.”

He waited until she took her next move before he continued. “…when I have imagination enough to guess.”

She flushed scarlet again, and fixed him with another glare. “I am regretting my decision to not pin down firmer rules, sirrah,” she said lightly. “For surely you walk the knife edge of chivalry.”

Cullen met her eyes for as long as he could manage, as he felt the edge of his mouth fight to curl into what was likely a very guilty smile. And then he winked.  
Evelyn burst into laughter, and Cullen claimed the next two questions, as they played several moves in quick succession.

“An inquisition!” Evelyn announced, laughing, and leaned back with her glass of water.

“An easy one, then,” he said happily. “When Leliana came to my office and brought me with you to your spar, you leapt in front of the door. In your own keep. In the middle of the afternoon. As if you were protecting me, or expecting an attack. When we’d been getting interrupted all day. Why?”

Evelyn waved a hand. “Easy indeed. I am exceptionally high strung.”

Cullen laughed. “I reject your answer.”

Evelyn frowned in response. “I am exceptionally high strung, and I was suffering from a plethera of guilty thoughts, and I cannot help but want to ensure your continued longevity, my Commander.”

There was another clear bait in her answer, but it also sang of the truth. He smiled his thanks.

“A similar vein, then,” he said. He leaned forward, dropping his tone. “Explain to me what you meant when you said you feared being a target.”

Evelyn leaned forward and brought her palms to her face, rubbing her eyebrows before running both hands over her scalp, smoothing her short ruddy hair. “Augh, I set myself up for this.”

“I did offer to reschedule,” Cullen said gently.

She waved a hand at him dismissively. “I’ve always been… high strung, I suppose I said already. Jumpy? Anxious? High energy? It’s not that I’m a worrier, I’m not. I’m more of a… very concerned planner. I over plan. I way over plan. I make plans on how I should make plans, and then I plan on how to follow the plans I’ve made.”

Cullen laughed. “Okay, that’s an exaggeration,” she allowed, “but not by much. They used the word _hypervigilant_ when I got older, old enough that I should be able to sit still but couldn’t. So when it came to pick a field, I wanted to be able to defend myself. I took up arms because it was a handy skill to have, something I could use in all those plans I was making. And then… then in a completely unrelated set of circumstances I happened to meet a thief. And as I watched him, I realized the people who were trying to catch him kept losing track of him. And I thought, now _that_ is a handy skill to have. If you can’t find me, I can’t be a target. If I’m not a target, I’m not trying to make plans on how to escape, how to survive. Because that's what I feel like I always am, what I feel I have to constantly plan against... being a target.”

She stopped to take a gulp from the water in her goblet and Cullen took his next move – a reprieve for the lady.  She looked at the board gratefully. “It’s not fear,” she said softly. He froze. “It looks like fear, it tastes like fear, and it drives me like fear. But it’s not fear. If ever I believe it’s fear, I would be paralyzed. I have to think of it as a tool, just another quirk. I have to _believe_ it isn’t fear. So I understand why they force _Herald_ down my throat, even though I told everyone from the start I had not met Andraste. I understand how faith keeps the …fear at bay.”

Before Cullen could comment, she took one of his pieces. He glanced at the board – no easy retort – so gestured for her to ask while he considered his options. Evelyn made a show of considering what to ask, so he gamely made a move and sat back to answer.

As soon as his hand left the piece, she leaned forward and whispered just loudly enough for him to hear, “name of the first woman you laid with.”

Cullen, mind still churning with what Evelyn had said about fear, answered her without thinking. “Meghan Amell,” he said, and then dropped his head to the table. “Oh, Maker.”

He could feel her exultation. “oh ho ho! And how did you break free of her surely enraptured attentions?”

Cullen didn’t lift his head. He should have demurred, told her that she’d already asked her question. But the words came unbidden. “She was a mage in the Ferelden Circle. She was lost when Kinloch…”

“Oh, no. Oh, no, Cullen, I am so sorry. I had… I had no idea. Cullen-“

And she crossed the table, knelt before him, put a hand to his knee and the other to the back of neck, her fingertips cool against the sudden burn of memory. “It’s her, in my nightmares,” he said softly, needing to evict the words now that they’d risen to his tongue. “She was… I will spare you the details, I’m sure you can imagine. You know from Leliana what happened to me there. It was her image that nearly broke me, and her death that kept me whole.”

“Cullen, I’m-“

He looked up blearily, raised a hand to her lips. The garden was mostly empty, but he was acutely aware of the scene they might make. “You could not have known. Please, do not trouble yourself. I could have answered you better.”

She moved back to her seat, and in silence they played through a series of moves that decimated the remaining pieces on the board. Evelyn finally was able to claim a question, and Cullen motioned for her to continue. She demurred, and they gently fought back and forth about it for long enough to both regain their humor. Finally, Evelyn scowled across the table and lifted her goblet to throw back the rest of the water.

“The letter Leliana dropped on your desk that day, before she & I dragged you off to our spar. What was in it?”

He had to think back to even recall Leliana having a letter, but finally he realized Evelyn had just solved a mystery for him. “Leliana left that? I had been wondering where it was from. Now that you mention it, she did drop something on my desk then – I was too busy wondering at your duck-and-roll to the door to pay attention.”

“You’re staaaaaalling,” she sang softly, and Cullen couldn’t help but wonder how her voice would sound when lifted into true song, and not simply to mock him.

Cullen shrugged. “It was… augh, you already know. Varric and Cassandra have been fighting over Hawke for so long, I was starting to wonder when she would start in on me, since I knew the Champion arguably well. Varric and I got to sharing reminisces of our time in Kirkwall, and he reminded me that Hawke’s mother name – and the noble house they had reinstated – was actually Amell.”

Evelyn’s breath hissed between her teeth. Cullen raised a hand to forestall her.

“There was a …distant relation. Not many realize that Hawke is an apostate, so magic was definitely known to run in the family. In Hawke’s case, though, Varric assured me it came from her father’s side. I was… not ready to look into the connection on my own, but I was in a place to start thinking about it. And then the letter was deposited on my desk. It was a dossier on the Amell family – branches, history, known whereabouts. I should have known it was from Leliana, but to be honest I only spent enough time with it to satisfy my curiosity before burying it in my desk.”

Evelyn stretched a hand out to the side of the chess board, and he reached out to hold it briefly. She gave his hand a quick squeeze and then withdrew. “If there’s anything you would like me to help look into…”

Cullen snorted a laugh. “Yes, _that_ would be a completely comfortable endeavor. Having you look into the families of old lovers? Would I get to return the favor? Anyone who jilted you that you would like some of my men to pay a visit to?”

Evelyn laughed then, self-consciously. “Point taken. And I do _not_   have to answer that.”

They were down to the end of the game. Evelyn had definitely lost – but she could take one more piece before the end. She swiped Cullen’s knight from the board, and gestured for him to take the final move. He smiled at her over tented fingers, his elbows on either side of the board. “Come now, you took a piece. You’ve earned your question.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “I’ve lost the game. If you end the game with your next move, surely that earns you a reprieve. And my questions have done nothing but sour the mood. You have beaten me in every way possible, sirrah. I give you forfeit.”

Cullen leaned back and crossed his arms across his chest. “Forfeit? Then as victor I want to know what this final question _could_   have been. For posterity’s sake.”

“Fine then, you want my question? How long have you known the meaning behind Varric’s cursed nickname?”

Cullen smiled at her then, this final victory washing away the heartache from minutes before. Rather than answer, he reached for the board. “Checkmate,” he replied, and stood from the table, offering his hand to Evelyn.

She stood, the expression on her face truly sour, as Cullen claimed both her hands. He grinned then, and she smiled back helplessly. The smile faded comically as he lifted her hands to his mouth and kissed each knuckle, discretely dragging his teeth against each ridge. He could see every tiny hair on her arms stand up, follow the chain reaction to her neck and watch it disappear, presumably to travel down her spine.

“Rat bastard,” she muttered before succumbing to a violent shiver.

“Inquisitor?” It was Leliana, standing demurely a respectable distance away. “Inquisitor, we had an appointment?” she said when Evelyn had looked up.

“ _You_!” Evelyn hissed, looking from Leliana to Cullen and back.

Leliana shrugged. “I told you I would be revenged. Now, come work off your frustrations with me.”

Cullen colored helplessly at the implication of what their _appointment_ was, even though he knew full well they would be sparring on the roof.

Leliana quirked an eyebrow at him, in silent invitation, and he colored again. “I am sure the Inquisitor has had enough of me for the afternoon,” he said, and bowed lightly before stepping back.

Evelyn glared at them both darkly before stalking off towards her tower, and Leliana winked conspiratorially at him as she turned to follow.

“Don’t put that away yet,” Dorian said, reappearing as Cullen made to scoop up the scattered pieces.

“How much of that were you listening to?”

Dorian grinned. “Why, Commander. All of it. And a masterful performance if I do say so myself. Would you consent to the same terms in a wager with me?”

Cullen barked a dubious laugh, strangely unconcerned by Dorian’s eavesdropping. The Tevinter was Evelyn’s dear friend, and Cullen couldn’t help but like him. “Not on your life, Sparkler.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: my dear friend from Ireland says their slang for drunk is 'legless.' As in, my husband and I spent a whole week legless in Galway.


	12. Sleepless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen begins the descent into withdrawal and the Inquisitor is a bully.

Of course she picked Hawke’s brain the entire time they were out. Of course she came home with a detailed Amell family tree, pointing out the child of Revka Amell, a cousin to Hawke’s mother, as being named Meghan and sent to the Ferelden Circle as a child. Of course she had information on Meghan’s family and next-of-kin, just in case.

And of course she only had two nights to spend in Skyhold before continuing on to the Western Approach, following the lead Hawke and the Warden Stroud had given her.

The icing on this singularly awful cake was Cullen’s descent into withdrawal while she was away.

They had glossed over it quickly, but speaking of the massacre at Kinloch Hold had brought Cullen’s nightmares back with a vengeance. With the sudden decline in sleep, the true madness of lyrium withdrawal was able to creep in. By the time Evelyn finally returned, Cullen had progressed to not sleeping at all, and had Cassandra on stand by.

He couldn’t help but think it would be easier to just take it. He had the box out, on his desk, waiting for him. He knew the keep had a lyrium supply – and Cassandra would not keep it from him if he asked. A few days of lyrium, and he would be set for months. Yes, the withdrawal symptoms would start again, but they wouldn’t be happening _now_ , when the world was falling apart around them. He was being irresponsible, putting his own needs ahead of those of the Inquisition.

He could actually hear her voice, then; the crystalline memory made real as a happy version of withdrawal hallucinations. “The Inquisition is made of _people,”_ she had said, over the forfeit game of chess in the garden the last day he’d gotten to spend in her presence. Her eyes were full of tears as he admitted to micromanaging the lives of his soldiers. “It never crossed my mind that you would take such a personal stake in it.”

Was he not one of the Inquisition’s people, too?

There was no answer. Enraged, he picked the damned box off the desk and launched it against the wall.

It barely missed her face. Had he actually been hearing her voice? No, her hand was yet on the door, she had only just entered; it was just monumentally poor timing.

“Maker,” he breathed. “When did you get back?”

“Just now,” she replied. “I fled before Cassandra could drag me into the war room for a debriefing. It won’t take long for her to figure out where I’ve gone.”

He couldn’t help but smile, but it was short lived. “I’m sorry I cannot fetch you a proper welcome.”

She crossed the room to his desk, giving him a bit of space.

“Is there anything I can do?”

Cullen frowned at her. “I get the feeling you already know anything I might have to say.”

Evelyn shrugged. “You can tell me whatever you like. Or nothing at all. I’m here for you.”

Cullen sighed and sat down. “As I’m sure Leliana has told you, then, I’ve stopped taking lyrium.”

“Actually, you kind of told me that, back in Haven,” Evelyn said gently. “You said you’d left the Order. When I was talking to Barris, he expressed how impressed he was, that you’d managed your symptoms so well. I had to ask him to clarify, and he seemed astonished I did not know.”

Cullen laugh, more an amused exhale than ought else. “And of course you had to find out everything.”

Evelyn wrapped her arms around her midsection. “You would not _believe_ what I had to do for Leliana before she would tell me about it. I should have just gone to Cassandra, like Barris suggested, but I suspected Cassandra would not tell me.”

Cullen shook his head. “And all this time I was worried what you would think.”

“I think you’re brave. I’ve never seen lyrium withdrawals… but once I knew what lyrium could do to a person, I can understand the severity of what you’re trying. I’ve seen men die from alcohol withdrawals, there’s no way lyrium leaves you any easier.”

“No,” Cullen said dryly. “Quite the opposite, really.”

Evelyn carefully eased herself onto the broad table, sitting cross-legged and turning to face him. “So what can I do?”

“Do?”

Evelyn shrugged. “Have you found anything that helps? Sweets? We’re headed out to the Western Approach, so I’m not going to be much help, but I know Sera has a bead on these amazing Val Royeaux chocolates…”

“You…” Cullen said, starting over three times before he successfully made a sentence. “You should be condemning me, ordering me to start taking lyrium again, for the good of the Inquisition.”

“Yeah? Well, that would make _me_ a heartless bitch. The Inquisition army is doing just fine, thank you very much. I have no issues to report with your leadership. To force you to make a change now would be a groundless and faithless decision.” She scooted across the table so her toes were touching his breastplate. “I have faith in you, Commander. _Cullen_. You’ve come this far. There is no reason to stop now.”

He pulled her off the table into his lap. “What could I ever have done to deserve you?”

She rested her head on his shoulder, one hand reaching up to curl around the side of his neck. “Oh, I don’t know. You were honest with me in Haven. You sat at my bedside when we’d lost everything. You carried me up all those damn stairs to my tower. You’ve definitely not been sitting idly by.”

He hugged her closer, at a loss for words. “But maybe most importantly, you appeared in a blizzard as my own personal salvation and carried me to safety when I had lost the ability to continue. I found that brazier and knew I was close, but I could not take another step. When my legs could not carry me any further, you did. I can only try to do the same for you.”

Cullen buried his face in her hair, breathing in the smell of dust and horses she’d carried in from the road.

“Inquisitor, you simply must-“ Cassandra’s voice from the doorway trailed off. Cullen tried his best to ignore her, to stay in the moment, but Evelyn lifted her head from his shoulder to look at her.

Cassandra was looking at the box Cullen had thrown from his desk. Her face softened as she glanced back to Evelyn in Cullen’s lap.

“I know, Cassandra,” Evelyn said gently. “If you want to fetch Josephine and Leliana, I will bring the Commander to the war room presently.”

The seeker nodded, then knelt to collect Cullen’s lyrium supplies. She took one step into the room before Cullen spoke. “Keep it, Seeker.”

Cassandra smiled, bowed her acceptance, and left the room.

“Come on,” Evelyn said, untangling herself from his embrace. “The sooner I go answer their questions, the sooner I can-“

Cullen pulled her face down to his, silencing her with a kiss. She leaned into it, hands settling at the neck of his breast plate, fingers curled lightly around the metal.

“Thank you,” he said when she pulled away.

Evelyn smiled in response, and tugged him out of the chair and pulled him along behind her to the door.

The war council was miserable. On the power of the Inquisitor’s dispatches from Crestwood, Harding had already been sent to the Western Approach. Her initial report arrived only a few hours before Evelyn had ridden into Skyhold that afternoon. Evelyn planned a short turn around; the next day would see her armor serviced and supplies restocked, and her team would leave the following morning.

They took dinner together that night; it was the first time Cullen had dined in the main hall in more than a week. While his head was pounding and his body hurt like he’d taken a roll down the battlement steps, he found the constant flow of conversation distraction enough to control his expression. Evelyn leaned forward at one point and gently rapped his knuckles with a teaspoon. He smiled, tilted his head to question her motives.

“Nice mask,” she said simply, and winked.

Cullen held his hand as if bruised, gently rubbing one thumb over the place she’d struck him.

Evelyn didn’t turn red this time, like he anticipated. But she stared at his hand with a sort of _hunger_   that was wholly unexpected. He watched, fascinated, as she drew her bottom lip between her teeth and slowly balled both hands into fists. Cullen noticed Varric watching the exchange, extremely amused, and the former templar hid his hand under the table to break the spell he’d seemed to cast over their Inquisitor.

She looked up at him then, and as soon as their eyes met, Cullen looked pointedly to Varric, who was grinning with something painfully close to victory on his face. Evelyn sighed, shook her head, and promptly excused herself from the table. She hadn’t had a proper bath yet, and she was tired from the road. She placed a hand lightly on Cullen’s shoulder as she left. He immediately felt empty, like he was only a functional human being while she was present. He finished the conversation he’d been having with Blackwall about the Warden issue and then also excused himself from the table, intending to throw himself back into his work.

“Commander,” Leliana’s voice caused him to turn. “I have a new dispatch I would like for you to look over with me in the war room. I believe it might alter one of your current projects.”

“Certainly, Sister. Please, lead the way.”

He followed the Nightingale down the hallway, through the seemingly too many doors, into the war room. She leaned on the spring-loaded door until she felt it latch securely, then slid the bolt home. “I will come unlock this later,” she said, walking directly to the hidden passageway and springing open the latch.

“Leliana,” Cullen protested. “I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to- for us to-“

“Cullen,” Leliana said over her shoulder, steps not slowing, “it is not only your well being that the Inquisition relies upon. If she is worried for you, she will be fighting with only half her heart. She has a number of ideas to help you through this portion of your withdrawals, and you owe it to yourself – and her – to hear them. I have business in the undercroft, and then a number of dispatches to decipher and reply to. I can do that work in the war room as well as anywhere else.” She stood in the stairwell leading to the undercroft, her features darkened by the uneven lamp light. “I will stay until mid of night, then you are on your own.”

Cullen could hear the smile in her voice at the end. “Am I expected?” he asked of her retreating form.

Her light laugh ghosted out of the gloom. “You have been expected for _months_.”

The only problem with this hidden passage, he reflected as the door slid shut behind him on the far end, was that from the bottom of her tower there was still the possibility of running into any number of people on the stairs. The Inquisitor’s clothes would need to be cleaned, water drawn for her bath, water or wine for her to drink brought up from the springs or cellars; adding on any missives sent by potentially anyone in the keep, and this stairwell could be a busy one indeed.

Luck was on his side – or perhaps simply the Nightingale was – and he made it to the door at the top without incident. He paused at the door, considered his options, and knocked, a soft two taps on the heavy oak.

So much time passed that he had decided to turn and go back downstairs, maybe meet Leliana in the undercroft, when the door swung open. The Inquisitor was wrapped in a thick bath robe, her short hair dripping rivulets of water down her neck. “Cullen!” she breathed, and pulled him into the room, shutting and latching the door behind him. The heat on his face was oppressive, and he knew he blushed scarlet.

“Forgive me, I knew you spoke of a bath, but Leliana-“

“Oh, shut up. You’ve seen me in less.”

She had a point. He shrugged his concession and she scurried up the half-flight of stairs separating the heavy door from the rest of her rooms. Cullen found his eyes trapped by the shortness of her robe, and flushed even darker as he watched the muscles in her calves and thighs propel her up the stairs. When she reached the top, he snapped his eyes back to the floor and carefully ascended into his lady’s chambers.

“Augh, you act like you haven’t been here a dozen times. At least.”

He shrugged again, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “I didn’t say I was comfortable with it.”

“Fine,” she said, disappearing into what he knew was her bathing chamber. A steady cloud of steam was emerging into the much colder room, the balcony open to let in the night air. The fire in the hearth was newly laid, putting off a great deal of light but not much heat. There was a lit taper on her desk, and a book laid open in front of it. He wandered over to glance at what his Lady was reading. _The Way of the Assassin_ , it said.

“Heir has me reading it,” her voice signaled her reemergence from her bathing chamber. She was wearing plaidweave pajamas, loose pants and a formless button-front shirt, and her hair was dried enough to not be dripping but not enough to lay in any semblance of order.

“That is the best use for plaidweave I have seen yet,” Cullen said appreciatively.

“Better than the bathrobe?” she asked archly.

“Given the circumstances, it is perhaps kinder on my nerves, yes.”

Laughing, she shuffled past him to a decanter of wine chilling on the side board, pouring them both a goblet without asking. Handing him one, she gestured for him to follow. “Come, sit by the fire.”

“Evelyn, I-“

“Please don’t make me start ordering you around, Cullen.”

He stood for a moment longer, considering and discarding replies, before deciding it would be easier – and likely safer – to simply do as the woman asked. He lowered himself to the rug beside her, and she turned a critical eye to his breastplate. “Why must you always appear in your blasted armor?”

“…I’m the Commander of your armies?”

She rolled her eyes. “Not in here, you aren’t.”

“And yet you presume to order me about?”

“Oh, shut up,” She said again. She scooted closer to him and began working at the buckle holding his armor on.

“Excuse me?” he said, canting up an eyebrow.

“Do you trust  me, Cullen?” she said without looking up.

“I- of course I do.”

“Then, please. Shut up. I’m helping you.”

The buckle came loose, and she slid the heavy plate off of him, nearly dropping it to the floor. “Andraste’s tits and ass, you wear that beast all day? Every day? You’re tougher than I thought, and that’s saying something.”

Cullen laughed helplessly as she swore. He wasn’t really presentable under his armor – the quilted cotton padding he wore under it was prone to rust stains, and not cut in a way that was considered fashionable anywhere in the world. She tugged at his shoulder, gesturing that he should give her the under layer as well. Sighing, he conceded. His boots followed closely after. She stacked everything carefully on the bench at the foot of her bed.

He was wearing only a thin shirt and trews now, although he was forced to admit it was more comfortable to sit on the floor without the heavy plate on.

“Good,” she said with a nod. She grabbed the padded stool from in front of the vanity in her bathing chamber and sat it behind Cullen on the rug, plopping down on it.

“What are you- oh.” He felt his eyes nearly roll back in their sockets as her fingers ran through his hair and started massaging his head. It was all he could do not to groan, and he fought to stay upright.

He allowed himself a little noise on his next exhale, a long sort of sigh to signify just how good of an idea Evelyn had.

“Mmmm, that’s better,” she said as he leaned back to rest against her knees.

“Oh,” he said when he started to come back to his senses, “that settles it. You’re not leaving. Ever again.”

Her laughter was like music, brighter and easier than anything he had yet heard from her. He supposed he hadn’t spent much time with her in true privacy before; most of the time they were together was in secluded corners of very public places.

“I will take that under advisement.”

They were silent for a long time, then. Her clever, wonderful fingers worked their way down his neck to his shoulders, and he could feel tension pouring off him. It was the first time he had felt truly relaxed in an impossibly long time.

“Any chance I can convince you to soak in the tub?” she said, and he only doubted the innocence of her request for the span of ten heartbeats.

“No, thank you,” he said. It was lie to say he didn’t regret the answer, but a bath in his lady’s chambers wasn’t synonymous with relaxation in his mind.

“I figured. Couldn’t hurt to ask.”

Cullen nodded, but fell silent as her hands started working through his hair again.

“I know what you’ll say to this next question, too, but I want you to really think about it before you answer. I think you should sleep here.” The tension flooded back into his shoulders, and she laughed lightly. “Actually sleep, Cullen. That’s all I’m saying. I think I can help you.”

“Help me?” he asked weakly.

“You need to fall asleep,” she said gently into his ear. “And then you need to _stay_ asleep. I have a sleeping draught here, but if you’re alone when you take it you might not be able to wake yourself up from a nightmare. Which is probably worse than not sleeping, all told. So take it here, get some rest, and if you need to wake up I’ll see you safely out of your nightmare.”

It was tempting, he had to admit.

“Leliana sent you here so I could help you. Remember? Please, Cullen.”

The reminder of Leliana’s words pushed him the opposite direction from where he had been leaning. “Fine. Fine, I’ll stay. Maker’s breath, I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this.”

“Agree to trust me. That’s all. Let me help you. We are none of us alone.”

He relaxed back onto her knees, letting her hands knead the tension from his neck and shoulders. Just making the decision had made him drowsy…

“You drugged the wine,” he said suddenly.

“Of course I drugged the wine.”

He should have been angry. He should have felt betrayed. Somehow, he didn't. Instead, he laughed, lifted his goblet to her in a toast. She reached down with her own and lightly touched the base of her goblet to the lip of his, and they both emptied their glasses.

“What would have happened if I had said no?”

“You would have fallen asleep here in front of the fire and I would have apologized very insincerely.”

He laughed again, feeling the wine and massage releasing him from much of the pain he’d suffered from that week. He sat up, spinning around on the floor, and pulled her off the stool into her arms. She sank down into his lap, wrapping her legs loosely to either side of his hips, and pulled his head onto her shoulder. He buried his face into her neck, breathing in the clean smell of her, mingled with the smoke from the fire and the light hints of good red wine.

“Come on,” she said much too quickly. “I can’t _cart you around_ like you apparently can me, so if you don’t get up you _will_ be sleeping in front of the fire.”

He stood and made for the chaise lounge nearby, but she had a death grip on his hand. “Come on, sirrah. To bed with you.”

He drove his heels into the rug, stopping her dead in her tracks. “Evelyn, no.”

“Cullen. For the – what, fourth time? – shut up.”

“Evelyn, no, I mean it, I can sleep on the couch.”

“Cullen.” She turned to face him, digging her fingers lightly into his hips. He mind rocked back to their kiss on the ramparts. “You agreed to trust me.”

“And I do, but.”

“Shut up.”

He sighed. He wasn’t ready to concede, not by a long shot, but he was suddenly very unsteady on his feet.

“Maker,” he said, taking a step sideways. “What did you give me?”

“No, no, no,” she said quickly, propelling him in a zip zag across the floor. “Don’t fall don’t fall don’t fall…”

He fell. She had managed to run him square into the bed, and he tumbled sideways across her mattress.

She worked quickly, then, getting him spun around so his head and feet were in the right places. He helped a little, but sleep had come to claim him for the first time in days, and he was an easy target. By the time Evelyn had the blankets pulled up to his chin, her Commander was dead asleep.

She figured she had a little time before he might wake – Solas had lent her a book about sleeping that explained the different stages of sleep and how to watch a person’s eyes to know when they were dreaming. She slid a robe over her shoulders – a  thinner one than what she wore after her bath – and darted down the stairs of the tower. She emerged to the right of her throne – the damned uncomfortable thing – and saw there were still a few of her inner circle sitting around the table, leisurely finishing their wine. Varric was conversing with Krem, who had apparently come to fetch Bull and been side tracked. Sera was hotly disputing something Bull was telling her about dragons, and Blackwall was lounged near the end of the table, taking it all in.

The warden lifted a hand to her in greeting. “Boss,” Bull said, turning.

“Is Leliana in the war room?” she asked, waving a folded slip of paper. “I got word of a new dispatch…”

Varric managed to look surprised. “You mean there actually was a change in intelligence? And here I thought Leliana was stealing away our Commander for some sinister motive.”

Evelyn scowled at him, trying to appear jealous. She seemed successful, as Sera started hooting with laughter, and Bull called Varric out as the slanderer of  a good man.

“Now now, I’ve known Curly longer than any of you, and that man has the easiest tells when he’s lying. I was sure he and Leliana were pulling one over on us.”

Blackwall joined Bull in taunting the dwarf, and Evelyn waved shyly as she moved by. “Thanks, guys,” she said as she pulled open the door.

Josephine was at her desk. “Are they still in there?” Evelyn asked as she passed through.

“What? Oh…” Josephine looked at the Inquisitor in her pajamas, obviously fresh from her bath, and then back to the locked door of the war room. Josephine knew of the passage, Leliana had warned her. “Y- yes, I suppose they must be.”

The ambassador clearly thought Cullen and Leliana had taken the passage – which they had – but Evelyn’s appearance utterly baffled her. “Was the dispatch important, my lady?”

“I must assume it was, for Leliana to send it to me at this hour. Forgive me, you must excuse me,” she said, and rapped four times on the door.

The bolt loosened immediately, and the door cracked open. “Yes?” Leliana’s voice chimed from just inside. “Oh, Lady Trevelyan, I’m so glad you came. We may need to alter your travel plans,” she said and drew Evelyn inside. The door shut and latched behind her. “Did it work?”  
“Of course it worked. He’s dead asleep. I need to get back up there.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Leliana crossed to the secret passage and verified it was closed, then went back to the door. “You remember our plan, yes?”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “It’s me. Of course I do.”

Leliana nodded, then unlatched the door. “Yes, I think that is a perfect solution,” she said as she passed through. “I will not begrudge you a few more minutes with the map, though. I know how you love to see your forces arrayed.”

Evelyn laughed aloud, crossing into the hallway behind the Nightingale, although she kept her eyes locked on the spot Cullen usually stood in the war room. “Are you sure you are well, Commander?”

Leliana approached Josephine then, saying “I hate to bother you, Josie, but we received a missive this afternoon that I forgot to bring to you before now. I fear when I return upstairs I will be waylaid… might you come up with me and retrieve it?” Her speech occupied the time the “Commander” would have responded to Evelyn’s question.

“Alright,” Evelyn agreed to the empty air. “Just do not tarry long, I know you have not been resting.” She smiled in the most doe-eyed way she could, willing Josie to believe Cullen was still in the war room.

While the ambassador was brilliant and cunning, she did not see this trap. “Of course, Leliana,” she said as Evelyn let the door swing shut behind her. She gathered up her writing board and followed the pajama’d Inquisitor and her Nightingale back into the main hall.

Varric was still being heartlessly razzed by the rest of the group, but they were doing it much nearer the door; the dwarf was obviously beating a retreat and being followed by Sera and Bull. By the time Josie came back from Leliana’s tower, there would be a long enough span for Cullen to have left without being seen. Plausible deniability. The last thing he needed was any more stress. He would be relieved to hear he had an alibi.

Evelyn tarried in the hall for a moment, ensuring the witnesses were all well away before Josephine came back down. When it was clear their plan had worked, she turned and raced up the stairs of her tower.

Cullen was still deeply asleep when she returned. She bolted the door and hurried to his side, anxiously watching his eyes. No dreams, yet. The draught Solas prepared was supposed to minimize dreams; she hoped it worked. Lyrium withdrawal was not a well studied phenomenon; people tended to either relapse or die.

Evelyn had a moment to consider just how long her day had been; starting at first light when they broke camp to cross the remaining miles back to Skyhold, coming home. She had walked into Cullen’s lyrium rage, lived through the drudgery of a war room meeting, and then made it through this convoluted plot of Leliana’s to get Cullen into her bed. Asleep in her bed, of course, but one step at a time.

She slipped under the covers next to him, and draped her body across his. If he had a nightmare, he would wake her up.

If, of course, she was able to sleep. She could feel his pulse under her hand where it lay over his heart. The steady drumming echoed in her ear where she pressed it into his shoulder. He’d had her in his arms countless times, but this was her first chance to feel the muscles of his legs under hers, run her fingers across the lines of his abdomen. She desperately wanted to feel his skin against hers, to finally see him in as little clothing as he had seen her. The thought threatened to keep her awake.

She wrapped her arm tightly around his chest and snuggled down deeper into the blankets. She willed herself to sleep, and was surprisingly successful.


	13. A Reprieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second half of "Sleepless."

 

  
She expected a fitful night, but Cullen slept it through. The draught combined with his exhaustion to give him a perfect night’s sleep. He awoke in the hour before dawn, as over a decade of military living had drilled into him. For one long, disorienting moment, he had absolutely no idea where he was.

The ripple of white cloth above him reminded him; how many times had he averted his eyes from that bed, to keep from imagining this very scene? He was suddenly aware of a great deal of warmth pressed against his left side, and he turned his head slightly to confirm his mounting suspicion.

The Herald of Andraste, Lady Evelyn Trevelyan, leader of the Inquisition, was softly snoring into his shoulder. Her left arm was hugging his torso – which were both clothed, he noted with mixed feelings – and her left leg was draped over his. There was no way out of this without waking her up.

Which brought up another memory – she was laying on him so if he had a nightmare, she would wake up and help him. His heart suddenly swelled in his chest. He had slept the night through, as far as he could tell, and hadn’t kept his lady awake. A dual success.

Now to get out of here with her dignity intact; his was already forfeit.

He tried to ease out of the side of the bed opposite her, but the second he moved, she snapped awake.  
“Cullen,” she hissed, “Are you alright?”

“Shh, yes, it’s fine,” he said, quickly placing his free right hand – the left pinned under her head yet somehow, blessedly not suffering from pins and needles – against her cheek. “Its morning, Evelyn, and I mean to flee with your dignity intact.”

She turned her face and kissed his palm, and thoughts of leaving temporarily evaporated.

“I have a plan for that,” she said. “No one need know you were here. I didn’t want you to worry.” And, in between kisses to his palm, she explained everything she and Leliana had done to ensure him a full night’s rest. Cullen again felt like he had been admitted into an exclusive club; the two rogues had joined forces on his behalf.

“You are too good to me by half,” he said, using his thoroughly kissed palm to draw her mouth to his.

“Oh, I would be better to you four times over if I thought you would let me.” she said against his lips.

“Maker,” he breathed, sliding quickly out of her reach. “That is not fair. You’re  _leaving_  again tomorrow!”

Evelyn rolled her eyes, but laughed. She slid out of bed on the opposite and walked away from him, ducking into the bathing chamber to give the man a reprieve.

“Get dressed,” she said from the other room. “We’ll meet for breakfast.”

Cullen quickly slid back into his armor, noting it somehow felt lighter than it had the day before. His headache was still present - the damn thing was never completely gone – but it was greatly reduced. All of his aches and pains, in fact, seemed to have taken a significant retreat.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, coming back into the room buttoning the ivory pants and jacket she always wore while in Skyhold. He suspected it was an intentional dichotomy; assassin’s black out in the world, chanter’s white in the Inquisition.

“Better,” he said, wincing at the surprise in his voice, praying it didn’t offend. She responded with a brilliant smile, again easing his fears. “Better than I have felt in a very long time, if I’m honest.”

“And you should always be honest,” she said sanctimoniously.

“So says the woman who drugged me,” Cullen muttered, smoothing his hair.

“Was I in the wrong?” She asked, her voice dropping low as she crossed the room to him.

He closed his eyes, took a breath. “No. Maker help me, no, it was the best thing you could have done for me.” Her smile was the sunrise. He had to look away or be blinded. “Someday I will repay you.”

Her throaty chuckle drew his gaze sharply back. She was  _leering_  at him. “I tell you what. When I get home from the Western Approach, we’ll even up the score on who has seen more of whose skin, and then I’ll call your debt repaid.”

He flushed scarlet again. It was still hard to believe the woman  _wanted_  him, perhaps even as much as he wanted her. “When you get home from the Western Approach, I promise to at least discuss it with you.”

She beamed at him, reaching up to gently smooth his hair, and then stepped back to sweep a critical eye over his appearance. “You actually look a bit more put-together than you did yesterday. Huh. Alright, off we go.”

She led him down the stairs and quickly to the hidden passage. “Remember, undercroft.”

“I know,” he said sullenly. The woman acted like he couldn’t hold up his end of the plan.

“And don’t look at Varric.”

“What?”

The door swung shut in his face.

He stood staring at it for a moment, and then shook his head and took the stairs down to the undercroft. He didn’t know where the passage let out – and was temporarily baffled when the door opened into a tiny storeroom that seemed unused, a few empty barrels placed where they wouldn’t interfere with the door. He closed the door behind him, and then peeked out of the storeroom. The undercroft was empty.

He stepped out of the room, straightened his clothes and hair, and then made a concerted effort to find Dagna or Harritt. Neither was present, so he turned and took the obviously passageway up to the main hall. Evelyn literally ran into him in the doorway.

“Oh!” she said, falling backwards to land heavily on her hands and ass. “Cullen!” She seemed to physically collect herself, accepting his awkwardly proffered hand up. “Commander,” she said, more steadily. “Good morning. I was just on my down to see Dagna.”

“She is not yet up, I assume, Inquisitor,” Cullen replied evenly. “I saw no sign of her or Master Harritt.”

Evelyn sighed. “I- well. Fine. Thank you, Commander.” She took a step as if to leave, thought better of it.

“How did you sleep?” she asked, gently.

He smiled at her. “Well, actually,” he replied.

She smiled back, shyly. “I’m glad to hear that, Commander. Your well-being is important to… the Inquisition.”

He felt his blush up his neck, and he awkwardly brought a hand up to the back of his head. “Thank you, my lady.”

“Will you break your fast with me?” She asked after a brief silence.

Cullen glanced at the tables to see who was assembled; Varric’s presence decided it for him. “I find I have much to do, my lady. I must beg your forgiveness. Will you excuse me?”

Evelyn was surprised and obviously disappointed, but she granted him his leave. Cullen bee-lined it for his office, and sat down heavily at his desk.

A solution to his worst withdrawal symptoms had neatly presented itself, and would disappear in a day’s time. Resolving not to think of it, he set about doing all her could to ensure the Inquisitor’s trip to the Western Approach would be as quick and efficient as possible.

Somehow, Varric bought the story. Evelyn was thrilled. Even better, Josie, who knew full well how it could have been pulled off, being aware of the secret passage, also believed she had simply missed the Commander leaving the war room that night. There was more than one way Cullen could have taken into the undercroft – Dagna was particularly fond of a passage that led to the kitchens, as she used sugar as a medium for practicing how best to draw new rune configurations – and the most reasonable solution was the one presented.

Cullen knew by mid morning that the ruse had worked; at least one soldier would have been talking about it where he could overhear, if the rumor was being spread that he had spent the night with the Inquisitor.

Which he had, he thought, bemusedly. He had absolutely spent the night with the Inquisitor. Not the way either of them would have liked, he was coming to realize, but he had both fallen asleep and woken up beside her.

The day passed quickly, and somehow his path never crossed with Evelyn’s. He worried a bit that his refusal to share breakfast with her had hurt her feelings, and worried more that he wouldn’t get a chance to apologize before she left for the Western Approach the next morning. Both fears turned out groundless.

An hour after the last report would normally come in, Cullen was enjoying the quiet at his desk, finishing paperwork for the day and starting the inevitable reports for the morrow. He heard a light thump on the ceiling, and glanced at the ladder up to his sleeping chamber in time to see a pair of ivory booted feet appear, dangling through the passage as their owner sat on the side of the opening. Cullen stood and went to each of the three doors to his office, opening each to ensure there was no one en route to see him, before shutting and locking them. He had an open door policy, it was true – but his people also knew how to knock.

Evelyn slid down the ladder when she heard the last bolt slide, and she crossed the room to him, practically dancing into his arms. “You were brilliant,” she said against his neck. “Even Varric bought it, it was amazing.”

“You’re not mad at me for abandoning you at breakfast?”

“No, not at all! Varric would have groused it out of us had you been there.”

“He is too clever by half,” Cullen agreed, tightening his arms around her. “So to what do I owe this honor?”

“I have a proposition for you, sirrah,” she said lightly, and gestured for him to wait there while she clambered back up the ladder. He couldn’t help but enjoy the view as she popped her head into his bed chamber, retrieved a bundle from the floor near the ladder, and then slid back down. He was, luckily, looking her straight in the eyes when she landed next to him. She seemed disappointed, which amused him greatly.

“This is a poor substitute, but it is what we will do,” she said as she handed him the soft-sided box. Inside was a stack of tiny tubes, the kind that were strapped to ravens for messages. Beneath the two or so dozen tubes was a stack of papers cut to size to fit the tubes, and a black leather-bound journal. Cullen took a quick inventory of the box, and then looked back to Evelyn for an explanation. “I want you to write to me, Cullen. Every day that I am gone.”

Cullen opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a hand to gainsay him. “I know, there’s a ton of issues you could possibly come up with. But please. You agreed to trust me? I’m not asking you for anything  _invasive_  or whatnot. But I want you to take some time every night to think of what you would like to say to me, were I here. Put that in the journal. And then, in the morning, choose one thing to put on the missive and take it up to Leliana’s cote. You can strap it to the raven yourself. The tubes are marked for my eyes only – Leliana’s agents know not to ever read them. And Leliana has promised to warn her informants against it, saying I’ve got a secondary mission in the ‘Approach that is top secret.”

She dragged him over to his desk, pushing him into his seat and sitting on the surface in front of him, her feet tucked into his lap. “Cullen, I know you’re – we’re both – intensely private people. But I can’t be here for you when you need me, and this is some little thing we can do together that I think will make us both feel better.”

“Evelyn,” he said quickly, “I’m not trying to argue. I’m trying to thank you. This is a wonderful idea.”

She slumped over with a sigh. “Oh, thank the Maker. I didn’t want to have to argue with you two nights in a row.”

“Speaking of that,” he said, looking askance at a flask at her hip. “Have you arrived to drug me into submission again?”

Evelyn grinned wickedly but kept her reply clean. “I did bring a sleeping draught for you, in case you wanted it. It worked so well yesterday, and I can’t help but worry you won’t sleep while I’m away…”

He set the box on the floor beside him and swept her into his arms. “You mustn’t let my battles distract you from your own, Evelyn. You must trust me to fight them here without you, like I must trust you to do the same in whatever forsaken hole you find yourself in. I will write you, and I promise I will be honest with you. If I am unwell I will tell you, but only if you promise not to change your behavior based on what I say.”

“I promise, Cullen,” she said, burying her face in her neck. “If you need to tell me you are unwell, I will hear it.”

“Now, I cannot speak to whether I want your damnable drug again,” he said after a moment, “but I will happily take another head rub.”

Evelyn laughed and stood, pulling him up with her, and led the way back to his sleeping chamber. He unbuckled his own armor this time, carefully arranging it on its stand, the under padding laid out to the air. He stripped his shirt out of habit, as he normally slept in just his trews if anything at all. He sat on the side of the bed and realized Evelyn was frozen in space, staring at him. He felt the flush start on his neck.

“Stand up,” she said softly. Blushing, Cullen obeyed.

“Turn around,” she said, and he again acquiesced, turning his back to her.

“No,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I mean,  _turn_. 360 degrees.”

Cullen stretched his hands out to his sides and slowly spun in place. “Am I on display?” he asked, trying to control his blush.

“Maker knows you  _should_   be,” she said, her voice becoming husky.

Cullen stopped his slow revolution and looked at her. She was biting her knuckle. Hard.

“Are you alright?”

“Nope. Not even remotely,” she said. She calmly walked to the wall and pounded her head against the cold stone for a moment before quickly turning back around. Cullen had taken a step toward her to stop her, but he froze as she approached him.“You are made of sex,” she said, putting one hand to his chest and walking him backward to his bed. He tried to argue but found himself laughing helplessly as she struggled to compose herself. “I cannot tell you how badly I want to give you a proper farewell.”

“And then leave me to wake up to an empty bed in the morning?” he replied gently.

“Ugh,” she said, pushing him backwards onto his bed and then folding up into a ball to sit beside him. “That’s the kind of thing I suspect  _Blackwall_  would do. Not my style. I’m definitely a cuddler.”

“So I noticed,” Cullen replied dryly.

“Did you mind?”

“No,” he replied quickly. “Maker, no, not at all. You even managed to lay in such a way my arm wasn’t put to sleep.”

She straightened and beamed at him. “See? Perfect for each other.”

They both sobered as her words hung in the air.

“Shit. I was safer with my mask on,” she said despondently. “Look, just forget I-“

Cullen sat up and took her face in his hands, silencing her with his kiss. “We don’t have to talk about it,” he said when she came up for air, “but don’t ask me to forget it.”

Her eyes fluttered open, and her lids seemed heavy. “Since when did you become the smooth one of the two of us?”

“Since Leliana divulged your weakness, I suspect,” he replied easily, linking his fingers behind his head and leaning back smugly. Evelyn slapped him on the abdomen and he flinched upwards, laughing.

“Rat  _bastard_ ,” she muttered, but Cullen didn’t think she was speaking of him.

She motioned for him to sit up, and she slid between him and the headboard, propping his head into her lap. “If you won’t let me drug you,” she said cheerfully as her hands ran through his hair, “I’ll do the polite thing instead.”

“If this is your idea of  _polite_ ,” he said as he bit back an appreciative groan, “you are absolutely forbidden from going to the winter ball.”

She laughed, then, the last sound he heard before falling effortlessly into sleep.

She didn’t let him wake to an empty bed. Her hands in his hair, her lips on his mouth drove him from his dreams. It was late – or perhaps very early – but she was leaving at first light. He woke up reaching for her, and she pulled his arms around her and let him draw her into his bed.

“I want to ask you not to go,” he said, yet half asleep. She laughed, the rich chuckle he was always surprised to hear.

“The sooner I leave, the sooner I will come back,” she said, curling around him as best she could. “I intend to bring you more soldiers to play with on the war table.”

He laughed with her, then, and she found herself rubbing her hands across his chest. She had been so good while he slept, restraining herself to only touching his head and neck. She had coveted the cords of his arms, the lines of his pecs and abs, the unmistakable curves where his legs cut into his torso. The thin trail of blond hair descending from his navel. He was chiseled from stone, not an ounce of spare flesh on him, and she imagined his arms carrying her up the stairs to her tower – but this time, she would be awake.

But now that he was awake, she couldn’t resist the urge to press against his skin. He made a warm sound of appreciation as her hands roamed his chest, and so encouraged, she closed her eyes and gently kissed her way from his shoulder up his collar bone to the hollow of his throat.

“Evelyn,” he breathed her name. “Maker, woman, you’ll be the death of me.”

The blanket obscured what she knew to be all the evidence she could ever need that the man wanted her. But she was on her way out the door. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t wind you up and then leave. It was cruel of me.”

He squeezed his arms around her tighter, rolling to his side to face her. By Andraste, the man was perfect.

His right hand brushed her hair back from her face, and he kissed her gently on the forehead, down the bridge of her nose, across her cheek, ending with a slow exhale against her ear while he lightly nipped her earlobe. Evelyn’s back stiffened, and she was instantly at full arousal.

“There we are,” he murmured, rolling back over. “All evened out.”

“Fuck,” she hissed, throwing herself on her back on the floor to cool off. She could hear him laugh from over the edge of the bed.

“Hurry back to me,” he said, rapidly falling back asleep.

She smiled in the darkness, glad to have seen to it he had two solid nights of rest in a row. It would be many weeks before she returned; she could only pray that he was through the worst of his withdrawals.


	14. The Approach

Her second day in the Western Approach saw her first note from Cullen. The agent holding Leliana’s birds brought it promptly to Evelyn when she arrived back in the camp that evening, the seal intact. “Nightingale warned me you would be seeing a lot of these this trip, Inquisitor,” she said as she proffered the tiny tube. The raven’s other leg had another tube on it, which Evelyn suspected she would only see after it had been decrypted and vetted for her.

 

_E,_

_Word reached me today that you were safely arrived in the Western Approach. I realized too late that while you would see my words, I would have little news of you but for what Lana chooses to share_.

Evelyn was startled by his use of the diminutive for Leliana. She didn’t remember telling him the nickname Leliana’s Warden lover had given her during the Fifth Blight.

_I hate to admit that my perfect slumber seems tied to your presence. I am still far better than the day before you arrived home from Crestwood. I will endure until you are safely by my side again._

_C_

 

Evelyn read the note a dozen times the next day, referring to it whenever she had an idle moment alone on her horse or over meals. Varric and Blackwall had volunteered for this trip, as had – surprisingly – Solas. His hatred of Wardens was plainly visible, so perhaps he tagged along to keep Evelyn from recruiting them into their ranks.

Varric seemed to immediately know precisely what was holding her attention, but luckily for Evelyn neither Blackwall nor Solas were the kind to tease her about her relations with the Commander.

“I tell you, Knuckles,” he said as they rode into camp that evening. “You can definitely pick ‘em. Curly wears his whole life on his face. You’ll never worry he’ll pull anything over on you.”

Evelyn snorted. “You have no idea,” she said, as she dismounted and strode to the bird handler. “Another missive for you, Inquisitor,” the woman said, handing her the tube.

 

_E,_

_You will laugh to see your journal full when you return. I have not yet decided whether I want even to be present when you read it, although I am starting to want to read it to you myself_.

She dropped her arms, remembering at the last second not to press the note to her stomach like a teenager receiving her first love letter. The sudden image of Cullen, shirtless in bed, reading to her from the leather bound journal she had left him sent a spike straight south from her navel. 

“Ooh hoo, what have we here?” Varric had clearly seen her reaction.

“Varric,” she said, her voice low and monotone. “You are a dear friend. I will feel terrible afterward, I am sure. But if you say one more word – word _one_ – I will open a rift on your head and see you sucked into the Fade.”

The dwarf went still, obviously weighing how serious the Inquisitor was. The shake in her left hand seemed to convince him. “Welp, that’s the inspiration I needed to finish up _Swords and Shields_ for the Seeker. I’ll be in my bunk.”

She turned in a tight circle, looking to see if anyone else had any smart words for her. Every eye was wisely turned away.

_Lana has assured me that, once enough ravens have been sent to you, you can spare one to bring word back to me. If you use the tubes I’ve been sending you, she swears to deliver them to me unopened._

_-C_

 

This was, far and away, the best idea she had ever had.

The papers he was using to write her were, by necessity, prohibitively small. But those few lines were enough to assuage her fears of his suffering in her absence. She could judge by the steadiness of his hand that his withdrawal was progressing favorably, regardless of what substance his words projected.

They established a new camp on the next day, and Evelyn worried that the raven wouldn’t find them. The birds were brilliant, however, and were quickly sent to whatever camp Evelyn stayed at when the telltale message marker was seen.

She had to spend some time adjusting their potions, what with Hawke and Stroud joining them, and she spent most of the afternoon hunched over the alchemy table in camp.

The bird arrived just before sundown, as her hopes were beginning to crumble and she was considering a midnight ride to the lost springs canyon to retrieve the bird she was sure was there. She was relieved to be spared such an embarrassing confession to Varric.

 

_E,_

_I cannot sit at my desk without imagining you perched upon it. I cherish the memory of the day you freed yourself from your duties to ‘make things right’ by me. But more than anything else, finding you upon my desk that day has buried within me a tiny kernel of hope every morning, that I might descend into my office and find you there._

_-C_

 

“I have need of a quill, friend,” she said briskly to the agent who had handed her the missive. The man seemed surprised, not expecting the Inquisitor to respond to the messages she was receiving. “Is all well, Inquisitor?” he asked as he dug out a set of writing tools for her use.

“I believe you are under orders to not inquire about this business?” she said, making her voice as cold as she could manage. The last thing she needed was over eager agents reading her notes from the Commander. The agent paused, obviously weighing his alternatives. That he would need to even consider his answer was enough for Evelyn.

Evelyn took a step toward him, bringing her face near his. “I tell you now, I am the only person you will ever meet to _routinely_ defeat the Nightingale in armed combat. And you are the only person I have said this to. _That_ is the secret you get to keep, since you desire knowledge above your station. One whisper of it out in the world, and I will not hesitate to destroy you. If you think Leliana desires an untrustworthy agent, _you have another thought coming_. Now give me my quill, sirrah.”

The man’s face was white. He hurriedly passed her the supplies and bowed, deeply, stuttering an apology. Evelyn turned to retreat to her bunk, but saw Varric – always Varric – watching her. This time, it was with unbridled respect. She winked at the dwarf, and slipped into her tent.

 

_C,_

_I wanted to wait until I had some kind of news to give you, but your comment about your desk set my skin on fire._

_I am well. I am receiving – and cherishing – the lines you send me. Varric is an unrepentant ass._

_And when I return home to you, I swear I will make it so you_ never _look at your desk the same way again._

_-E_

 

She rolled the scrap of paper tight, fitting it into the delivery tube. She then carefully scraped off the old seal, dripping new wax and pressing the charred hilt of her left hand dagger into the seal to mark it as unarguably hers; the charred metal even smelled like the Fade. It was a kind of sulfuric burn that she was infinitely grateful didn’t continuously ooze out the anchor; surely even Cullen wouldn’t want her if she reeked of burnt rotten eggs.

Not trusting the agent, she slept with the tube tucked in the bodice of her under armor, maliciously hoping a bit of her scent remained upon it when it finally made its way into Cullen’s hands.

She took the sealed tube to the disgruntled bird handler the next morning. Noting his attitude, she wrote a second note.

 

_Nightingale,_

_I believe your agent may be reading missives meant for my eyes only._

_Guard your words._

_-Trevelyan_

 

She asked the bird handler for a second tube, and the shocked look on his face instantly aggravated Evelyn. What little remorse she felt in sending the second note evaporated. “I will take both legs of today’s bird. Whatever news you have to send _can wait until tomorrow_.”

The agent reluctantly gave her another tube, and she dropped the new message in and handed it back to him without a word. Then, she dug the other tube shamelessly out from where it lay beneath her right breast, and pointedly watched as he attached it to the leg of the raven.

He needed to seal the other tube before sending it – else the paper could fall out anywhere in Orlais – and Evelyn turned to Varric to accept his proffered breakfast with a word of thanks. Varric’s eyes suddenly flew open wide, and he turned another look of respect to the Inquisitor, before biting his lip to keep from laughing. He ducked his head and turned, quickly walking away, ostensibly to prepare Bianca for the day.

Evelyn turned slowly, to see what had amused the dwarf.

The bird handler had sealed the tube and attached it to the raven, and was working fast – with hands shaking so badly he appeared palsied – to release it into the air. Another glance showed her what Varric had seen – the man had a slowly expanding wet circle in the seat of his pants.

He saw her watching him as the raven flapped ponderously into the air, and he met her eyes long enough for her to see his terror before he dropped into a deep bow. “Inquisitor,” he said. “Please, I assure you. I read nothing.”

Evelyn stepped toward him, and laid a hand on his shoulder. He flinched sharply. “Pray keep it that way.”

“Yes, Inquisitor. I swear it, Inquisitor. Thank you.”

She made herself walk away, although she twitched to show the man her unprotected back. Varric’s hands were on Bianca, though, and he was ostensibly showing Blackwall something about the aiming mechanism that could only be done by pointing the crossbow towards the shaken agent behind her. She grinned at Varric, and everything was right with them again.

“What did you say to that poor bastard, Knuckles?” he asked when they were on the road. Hawke was riding beside them, as they were headed off to investigate an old fort in the west.

“I am cooking something up with Leliana,” she answered him cryptically. “You can probably guess at its nature.”

Varric started laughing. “Poor Curly. He did ask for it, I suppose.”

Hawke shot them a confused glance. “I am sadly in love with my Commander, Marian,” Evelyn said glibly to the apostate, realizing long after it had come out of her mouth that poor Cullen should have heard the words first.

Hawke smiled, long since on a first name basis with the Inquisitor. “Cullen? I can admit to seeing the wisdom in your choice.”

Evelyn grinned back. “I will delight in telling him you said as much.”

Hawke threw her head back and laughed. Varric rode between them, looking like a kid in a candy store.

“Anyways,” she continued, attempting to answer Varric’s question with as little falsehood as possible, “her agents have been told that a certain pattern of tube is for my private correspondence, and is not to be opened and vetted before I receive it; I am to get it sealed intact. This agent seemed to dislike that order, and somehow felt he deserved that intelligence. I… disabused him of the notion.”

“Oh, do tell,” Varric nearly begged. “I haven’t seen any of the sister’s people that shaken since one of them had to tell Cassandra that Hawke was on the battlements.”

They all laughed at that, and Evelyn gave Varric the satisfaction of a straight answer. “He wanted private information, so I gave him private information. He is now the only possible source of a leak on a sensitive subject, and if it becomes a rumor anywhere, I’ll know it was him. And so will the Nightingale.”

Varric winced at that last. “I know you’d show the sod mercy, Knuckles, but Leliana would tear him limb from limb.”

“Which is why I sent her an unsealed message telling her I believed her agent was reading my missives.”

Varric’s jaw dropped. “You didn’t.”

Evelyn shrugged, and Hawke started laughing so hard she nearly lost her seat.

Evelyn canted over to surreptitiously hold Hawke in the saddle, which made Marian laugh all the harder. “Oh, I would have wet myself if I were him,” Hawke said once she had her breath.

“He _did_ ,” Varric and Evelyn said at once.

They had to stop to put Hawke back on her horse, although the mage promised she was uninjured.

 

*

 

With their run-in that day with Erimond, all their nicely laid plans were shot straight out the window. Rather than bring home a small army of Wardens from the Western Approach, she was facing an army of demons. 

Evelyn returned to camp in a dead run, rattling off messages that sent raven feathers drifting on their tents like black snow as all available birds went into the air.

They had to wait until the next day to leave, to ensure messages didn’t get crossed in transit. They set out for the lost springs camp, so they would at least be closer to the road home when the time came to depart. The agent Evelyn had threatened swore he would return any missives to her in Skyhold unread, should they come to him. Evelyn believed him.

But the ravens still landed first in the lost springs, and the missives that day reflected the sad truth that they had to wait yet another day to set out, so potential news wasn’t left behind them.

 

_E,_

_The nightmares returned with a vengeance last night. I was tempted to use the draught you so thoughtfully left behind, but with no one to promise to wake me, it seemed a poor decision. It should be noted that my dreams have taken a different edge; rather than torture me with the past, they have decided to threaten my future._

_I continue to pray for your safe return._

_-C_

 

A bad night, then. The threatened future… perhaps instead of images of Meghan, his nightmares involved her? The idea that he would refer to her as his future made her heart skip beats. The wait that day would be brutal.

Hawke and Stroud had set out to scout Adamant, and Evelyn took Varric, Solas, and Blackwall rift hunting to pass the time, so the day did not feel wasted.

The found and closed four that day, which ran them precariously out of potions and left a torn rent in Blackwall’s shield the size of Evelyn’s forearm. They also happened upon a bottle of swill that Blackwall called “conscription ale,’ and it served nicely that night to help keep Evelyn’s mind off the delay. Varric chose to wax poetic about his adventures with Hawke, which killed the hours until dawn, when they could pack with a vengeance.

The bird that arrived that morning was dreadful to behold. Evelyn recognized him as Leliana’s personal favorite, an unfriendly old beast the Nightingale called Baron Plucky. The creature was a force of nature, and had never missed a delivery. He bore two, and both tubes were sealed to Evelyn’s eyes.

By sheer chance, she opened Leliana’s note first.

A quick glance, and Evelyn raised her hand in a celebratory closed fist. “Ready to ride in ten minutes,” she said, and they leapt to action.

 

_Knuckles,_

_The agent is noted. An inquiry will be made._

_Your discovery is also noted. Expecting your imminent return._

_Plucky answers only to red meat._

_Nightingale_

 

Evelyn was tempted to delay reading the second note until she was on the road and had a bit more privacy, but Cullen was still her Commander, and his words might have bearing on something other than her heart.

She unrolled the paper and her breath caught; his handwriting was noticeably more tremulous.

_E,_

_My desk is already ruined, just at the suggestion. Your note changed the tide for my dreams, although I will admit that while they did not allow me much sleep, either; the wakefulness was much more pleasant._

_I return to this writing some hours later, having received your news. The rest of my words I will save for your ears. I am wracked with guilt for rejoicing at your otherwise terrible discovery; for above all else it means you are coming home._

_-C_

 

Evelyn rolled the note into the middle of the thin stack she had accumulated during their short stay there, and tucked it into the space under the right breast in her bodice. She called for a quill and penned a quick note for the Nightingale, not trusting herself to write again to Cullen.

The tremor in his hand had not been from withdrawals, but want, and the idea near to drove her mad.

The letter to Leliana was simple – a date and time of their departure, unsigned. She strode a few paces into the desert and slew a fennec fox – the things were everywhere – and tossed it to Baron Plucky while the unhappy bird handler tied the tube to his talon. The raven made quick work of the fox, and spared Leliana’s agent his beak. He even gave Evelyn’s hand a quick nudge before taking off, as if in thanks for the meal. The agent outright hugged her. “He near took my arm off when I tried to get the tubes off!”

“You stay in contact,” Evelyn told her, breaking free with a smile. “You have reinforcements coming, as fast as we can manage.”

“Yes, your Worship,” she said, and they exchanged the fist-to-heart salute that had become so common in the Inquisition.

Evelyn whistled for her horse, mounted, and checked her party. She received three grim nods. They rode.


	15. Adamant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all knows what happens when they get home from Adamant.

Evelyn’s return to Skyhold was not what either she or Cullen wanted. Hawke and Stroud rode in six hours after she arrived with her party, and the race to mobilize the army and march on Adamant kept her from Cullen’s side for everything but business. She staggered into his room at night, the only way to guarantee he would sleep, and collapsed against him, keeping her eyes open just long enough to see him drift off before dropping unconscious herself.

There was no attempt made at secrecy, but none was necessary – no one was sleeping, everyone was exhausted, and no one had the attention to spare for where the Inquisitor managed to squeeze in a few moments’ rest.

And then they were on the march, and Cullen stayed with his troops while Evelyn bounced between advisors and aides, staff and circle. Everyone needed to speak to the Inquisitor, even if only so she could thank them for choosing to stand with her, for coming with her to Adamant, for making the same sacrifices she was willing to make.

And then she was charging into the fortress, opening the way for her troops, and saying goodbye to Cullen at the front gates with only her eyes.

Cullen climbed to a better vantage point, to direct the flow of the battle and send help where help was due. He watched the Inquisitor give chase, watched the argument with the Wardens and wondered what was said. And then he watched her fall.

His heart surged higher in his throat the more altitude she lost, until suddenly her hand was raised, there was a flash, and they were just _gone_.

He didn’t need Vivienne in his ear to know where they had gone.

They had all entered the Fade.

 

*

 

Cullen had to willfully ignore his concern for the Inquisitor. For the sake of his psyche and the end of the battle, he had to pretend it didn’t happen. It was a nightmare, another vision sent by a demon to tempt him from his true purpose. There were demons left here, and Wardens who did not or could not stop fighting. That was his burden. He could not put it down until he had seen it through. Without the Inquisitor in the fight, Cullen ranged to the front, the vanguard of his forces needing a commander.

Her words were in his ear again, but memory this time rather than hallucination.

“It’s not fear,” she had said. “It looks like fear, it tastes like fear, and it drives like fear. But it’s not fear. You have to _believe_.”

And, somehow, by the time they fought through to the rift in the center of Adamant, she was striding through it, turning it against the demons around it and sealing it shut with a force unlike any he had yet seen. There was a fierce grief on her face, and a sorrowful pride he could not place until he heard her announce Stroud had died a hero’s death, to let her and Hawke escape.

He saw her then as he rarely could, but as much of Thedas only ever did. She was practically dripping death, soaked in the blood of demons and abominations, the grip of her left-hand dagger a charred ruin against the fire of the anchor in her hand. Then she opened her mouth and _glory_ streamed out, an undeniable litany against fear and doubt. Her words lit a fire in everyone who heard them, and when she raised her dagger in the air she was met with the exultation of the masses. She was inhuman, his lady; and all over again it was impossible for Cullen to believe she could ever be his.

 

*

 

She came to him when first she could, two days after their return to Skyhold. She hadn’t slept yet, not with the memories of the Fade hanging over her head, and she filled her time with preparations for the Winter Ball and Hawke’s leave-taking. She had to discuss an unruly agent with Leliana, and give her personal thanks to Baron Plucky. Any moments she might have had, Cullen was gone; he had lost men and each one deserved his due.

He was in a meeting when she slipped into his office, the last meeting with his lieutenants with direct regards to Adamant, before they could resume normal function. He had given Rylen control of the Western Approach, and what support they could send was being finalized.

He lost his words when he saw her, and quickly drew the meeting to an end. There were no comments, no complaints; perhaps they saw her too, although not a one met her eye. She wasn’t trying to hide, but the only person whom she _wanted_ to have see her was Cullen.

He had been shaken badly by her fall, as for the _third time_ she had escaped death in such a way it appeared more a resurrection.

Touching her with anything other than formal respect might just be heresy.

And so he stammered when she approached. He lost his words again, until she slid between him and his desk with a voice like smoke and honey and demanded “Do you really need to ask?” She had her fingertips on his hips again, an electric reminder of their first kiss on the ramparts, and she drew him to her like a moth to flame.

He stepped back to the table then, eased her up onto it, and his mind flickered through every vision he had dreamed up of just that: this woman on this desk. Her hand, grasping for leverage, knocked a decanter off his desk – a gift from Josephine, reportedly, although he suspected it was a secret suitor from amongst the noble visitors to Skyhold, as Leliana and Josie had been teasing him with over the war table.

And more than anything else, her gasp of surprise marked her as human. She was capable of mistakes, vulnerable to fear, deserving of love. If she wanted his, he could only be happy to acquiesce.

Another memory welled up as he looked at her, of the night she had come to him with her secret of Leliana to hide the secret of herself. About how easy it was to tangle up love and duty. Cullen swept his desk clear of his duties, and allowed himself to love.

She drew him forward as she fell backward. He quickly slid off his bracers and gauntlets and dropped them to the floor as he kneeled up onto the desk and then down to cover her body with his own.  He tried to ease back, keep his weight from crushing her, but she was silently insistent. His right arm bent, slid under her neck, propping her head up and supporting his weight; his left hand was free to roam from shoulder to hip. Her hands were buried under his plate, deftly finding and releasing the buckles that held his armor on. Then she was pulling the plate off, and he ducked his head under and watched it slide off the edge of the table above them, somehow landing on his chair without crashing noisily to the floor. The quilted under layer quickly followed, and then her hands were in the laces of his shirt.

His left knee was squeezed between her thighs, so he eased slightly onto his right side for the leverage to gently push her knees apart and slide his knee up. Her back arched in response, and he felt rather than heard her gasp against his mouth. Her hands were a flurry of motion then, untucking his shirt and pulling it over his head. He was briefly occupied by unthreading the sleeves from his arms, with the right pinned under her head, and when he glanced down, her hands were on the buttons of her coat.

He stilled her with his left hand, and slowly took over, popping each button open in deliberate succession down her front. He could see her chest heave under his hand, hear her breath rasp in her throat. She reached up and dug her fingertips gently into his shoulders, dragging her nails across his biceps to his elbows and back. He reached the bottom button and hesitated at the waistband of her pants, just long enough for her to shudder and start to squirm. He gently pushed apart the now-separate sides of her coat, the stiff material determined to keep its shape. His fingers brushed the skin of her abdomen and she _spasmed_ , nearly startling Cullen off the desk. Her breath hissed through her teeth and he remembered how her nickname had come about from her being extremely ticklish. He pushed his hand under the ivory cloth and pressed against her skin, trusting the roughness of his skin to eliminate another tickle. Evelyn made an appreciative sound deep in her throat and her eyes fluttered closed.

Cullen moved up her abdomen, tracing the lines of her musculature with enough pressure to avoid getting himself thrown to the floor. When he reached her sternum it became clear she wasn’t wearing anything under the coat.

Compared to the multiple layers Cullen donned every day, the idea that there was only one piece of material between her flesh and the world on any given day seemed downright scandalous.

Evelyn flexed her shoulders, and the material parted, exposing her collar bones and cleavage, and Cullen took the opportunity to push aside the left side of her coat to reveal the rest of her chest.

The rough skin of his hands, chapped from the mountain air and the steel of his gauntlets, calloused from over a decade of sword work and war, skimmed over her taunt nipple. Evelyn’s back arched again, and she bit back a moan. Her fingernails dug into Cullen’s biceps and he subconsciously pressed his groin into her hip. She seemed to explode into action, hands flying to the laces of his trews and then to her own, pushing up off the desk to pull her coat off her shoulders and throwing it to the floor, and then grabbing the back of Cullen’s neck and forcing his mouth onto hers.

She was pressing her left leg against his right, and pulling his neck gently to his left, and eventually succeeded in forcing her leg under his, pulling his hips between hers. His right hand was tangled in her hair, his left massaging the skin under the waistband of her pants. Her hands slid down his chest to his waist, to his navel, and then she pressed her palms flat to his skin and slid them into his loosened trews.

He heard a thump behind him, as her legs seemed to move erratically, and then a second sound, and her knew it was her boots dropping to the floor. He found his hand was pulling on the waist of her pants, exposing the skin over her hip bone, tracing the scars that crisscrossed the outside of her thigh. He pressed up onto his knees, lifting his weight from her, and she immediately lifted her hips from the table, scrambling to remove the last of the barriers between their bodies. Her pants were dragged down her legs, and he glanced down to see she had looped the ankle seam around her big toe and was using her feet to disrobe. He tried to laugh, but her mouth caught his and she pulled him back down onto her. He heard her pants softly hit the floor, and then her knees were pressing on his hips, her hands dragging his pants free. His hand travelled back up her side, touches intentionally rough to avoid tickling her, to trace designs across her breast and tease her nipple erect in the chill air of his office.

His trews were being dragged down his thighs by her feet, and he roughly toed off his boots and kicked free of his pants, feeling them both fall very still as the last of their clothes landed on the floor.

Her hair was a glorious wreck, a ruddy halo around her flushed cheeks and reddened lips. She was smiling, an exultant grin that filled Cullen’s heart. She ran her hands back up his chest, along the lines of his abdominals and pecs, tracing his collar bone and then cupping his throat. Her hands were cold, although the rest of her was fire against his skin.

She moved, then, tilting her hips and adjusting their relative positions, so they were suddenly aligned. She was a wet heat against him, and his heart skipped violently in his chest. She squeezed her knees against his hips, trying to draw him from his reverie. “Cullen,” she whispered, the first word either of them had spoken in ages. His name sounded like a prayer from her lips. “Cullen. Please.”

Their gazes locked as he answered her plea, a slow push as she gently rocked from side to side, settling him inside her and locking her ankles behind him.

Cullen exhaled heavily, dropping his head to her shoulder, and she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him even closer.

She was perfect. They were perfect. _This_ was perfect. And it was somehow thrust upon them when the world was collapsing around them, when any moment of any day could be their last. When she was being slowly torn apart by an unworldly magic emblazoned in her hand, and he was burning up from within from the slow torture of withdrawal. That they were in this moment at all was perfectly impossible, a once in a lifetime conjoinment of constellations that might flare out in an instant. Cullen could not help but wonder if this was even happening, if he had finally succumbed to the burning need for lyrium or maybe stumbled across the single greatest hallucination ever, the enticement that would keep him from ever missing reality.

She tilted her hips again, gently bit his bottom lip. “Cullen,” she whispered. He could not possibly have imagined the throaty growl of her voice, the way she managed to thread it with need that hovered on the edge of pain; her voice convinced him of her existence. Shifting his weight back to his elbows, he abandoned any dream of making sense of this unbelievable reality. Her fingers dug into his shoulder blades as he started to move.

If he was reverent, she was gripped with religious fervor. His name became her litany, spoken in a different way each time it left her lips between gasped breaths and broken moans. They had been building up to this for weeks, driving each other mad with lingering kisses and missed opportunities. She had never been one for taking her time, and Cullen was never one to rush. But this slow velvet push-pull, the deliberately unhurried give and take was winding her up worse than weeks of whispered promises and secret missives. She wanted to cant her hips and throw them both to the floor, to see the look in his eyes as she rocked on top of him. She wanted to thrust against him, force him to speed up, drive him to give up his incredible control. She wanted to shake his focus. She wanted him in _pieces_.

But every time she gathered her will to make a move, he would shift slightly; a subtle lift in his hips, a shift to the side, an arm under her shoulders to cradle him to her chest. The change in sensation would make her catch her breath, force his name from her lips, and completely erase any thought of doing anything else but exactly this.

She hovered on the cusp of climax for days. Years. _Decades_. He seemed to know it, too, and maintained the precise same pace. She cursed military training in her head, but the words her mouth could form were “Cullen” and “please.” She heard herself whimpering – _whimpering!_ – and forced her eyes open. The intensity on his face stole her breath. He was _consuming_ her with his eyes, as if committing every pore to memory. Once their gazes met, he broke into a slow smile, and found her right hand, winding their fingers together and drawing it to his mouth. She realized his intent one second too late, and had her shock compounded with the overwhelming sensation of his teeth against her skin as he gently sucked on her knuckles to throw her over the edge.

She _exploded_ , the tightly wound frustration shattering into millions of glistening shards, impacting with her nerves to send electricity surging up her spine. The back of her head impacted with the desk as the room swirled alternately into blackness, starlight and the noonday sun and she was distantly aware that she had stopped breathing.

She came back to herself with a gasp, and her eyes shot open to find Cullen watching her, wide-eyed. Her ankles came apart and her calves dragged slowly down the sides of his thighs to rest on the table, and her arms slid off his shoulders to sprawl at loose angles on the desk by her head. Her hips came back into contact with the table, and she belatedly realized she’d been holding them as high up as he would let her.

As she sank into languor, Cullen’s eyes darkened and that slow smile slid back across his face. Rather than see him become _too_ smug, she weakly lifted a hand and pulled his lips down to meet hers. His mouth was hard on hers, and the tension that had fled her body seemed to settle into his. He shifted his hips to press against her, and the feeling sent another shock down her spine, drawing a moan from the back of her throat and arching her against him.

“Hold on to me,” he whispered, his voice a breathy tremor. Evelyn stretched her arms around his shoulders and kicked her ankles onto his back, and he pulled them backwards off the desk without pulling out of her. As his feet hit the floor, he wrapped his calloused hands around her ass, and pulled her even closer to him, lifting her easily off the tabletop. She made an alarmed sound against his mouth and tightened her legs around his waist.

“Can you hold on?” he asked between kisses. Evelyn nodded frantically, and he carried her across the room to the ladder. Her limbs locked around him as he let go with his hands, leaving her to cling to him while so sensually impaled. She buried her face in his neck, tracing the lines of muscle and artery with her teeth while he, somehow, climbed to the second floor.

“Cullen,” she whispered, astounded when he cleared the top of the ladder and wrapped both hands back around her ass, pressing her down and settling himself deeper inside her. “Fuck,” she hissed.

He laughed, taking her mouth back with his as he crossed the room and leaned down to throw back the covers and pressed her back into his bed. The bedding was icy – the unrepaired hole in the roof let in a wicked draft – and she recoiled violently from the chill, thrusting hard against him. They both gasped, and Cullen twisted as he dropped, coming down on his back with her atop him, then whipping the nearly frozen sheet across her newly exposed back. She hissed again, driving against him, and he used his grip on the bedding to pull her down hard to his chest. His skin was fire against the glacial linens, and she found herself burrowing against him, legs hard against his, digging her arms under his back.

He laughed again, a throaty chuckle that caused her to grind her hips against his. She shivered then, and growled, “fuck” against his chest. 

“Should I take it as a compliment,” he said, his hands in her hair to guide her mouth back to his, “that you have managed precisely three words since you set yourself between me and my desk?”

She made a noncommittal grunt, and leaned eagerly towards his lips. He rolled them over again, the hot-and-cold dichotomy of his skin and the chilled bedding driving the languor from her limbs. “And what three words they were. My name, which I will never hear from your lips again without remembering this night.” He pressed against her, starting to take up the same infuriating slow pace he had set downstairs. “Please and fuck.” He breathed each word against her lips as he thrust into her, driving her eyes backwards in her head. “We could make the most interesting sentence from those words, my love.”

With a growl of lust and frustration, Evelyn canted her hips and pushed up from the bed, rolling them over so she sat straddling him. His eyes went dark in the dim light leeching upward from the ladder, and she threw the blankets off her shoulders as she set her own pace.

Her knees locked against his ribs, as she dragged her hands up her body to catch in her hair, elbows out to either side as she tilted her head and arched her back. His hands gripped her hips as she swung them into orbit, pressing him down into the mattress and then driving him towards the headboard before pulling him back down, her pelvis becoming his center of gravity. He tried to exert some control over her pace with the pressure of his fingers, but she reached down and dislodged his hands and pressed them into her skin, wrapping his hands around her breasts before locking her fingers tightly back into her hair.

“Maker’s breath,” he gasped, his voice torn with helpless groans. “Evelyn, I can’t-“

She ignored him, throwing her hips harder, feeling the ache build in her ass and thighs and the trembling in the long muscles of his legs beneath her. She leaned forward, using the top of his pelvic bones to grind into her clit, and he groaned again. “Fuck, Evelyn, please. I can’t- If you- If you don’t- I can’t-“

“So don’t,” she said. “Give it up, Cullen. Give in to me.”

She broke him, then. His eyes snapped shut and he twisted his mouth into a silent howl, his hands pressing into her ribs, the base of his palms hard against her breasts, and she watched his iron will snap as he finally orgasmed. The feel of him spasming inside her drove her down with him, frantically finding his mouth with her own to breathe her silent scream into his lungs. His arms came down hard around her and he pulled her chest to his, tangling a hand in her hair and holding her lips to his own.

Gradually, she slid forward and he pulled out of her. They rolled to the side, and they tangled their legs together in the slowly warming blankets. He couldn’t stop kissing her and she wouldn’t let him try, her hands limp on his chest and his hand cupping the the curve behind her ear. He didn’t think he would sleep, not when he finally had her naked against him. Evelyn hadn’t slept in days, and was quickly unconscious, finding safety in his arms. Eventually the Siege of Adamant and the exhausting days surrounding it crashed over him and whelmed him under.


	16. Nightmare

He started shaking a bit after midnight, pulling Evelyn instantly from slumber. She had been deeply asleep, so it took her many long minutes to realize precisely where she was and why she had awaken. Cullen was coated in sweat, but shivering violently. His muscles were tense to the point she was crushed against him, his arms locked around her and his abs an unwielding wall. She had seen a man seize before, a hardened alcoholic who had been forced to go four days without a drink. She started to panic, the idea of watching Cullen shake himself to death while she was trapped in his arms drawing out a fear that shook her as badly as the Nightmare in the Fade.

“No,” he said suddenly. “No. Not her. Not her, No. I won’t let you. NO.” And he woke up with a shout.

His eyes were wild as he looked down at her, still crushed against his chest, and for a brief, terrible moment she was sure he didn’t know he was awake, thought she was one of his tormenters.

“Cullen,” she whispered, struggling to bring her hands up to his face. “Its alright, I’m here.”

He stayed perfectly still but she watched, relieved, as the terror drained from his eyes and his muscles slowly relaxed. He still held her close to him, but he shifted his hands and softened his arms, settling her more comfortably. “I’m so sorry,” he started to say, and she pulled herself up to kiss him silent. He remained still for a moment longer, as if having trouble separating his nightmare from reality. She pulled back, cupped his face in her hands, and when she leaned in to kiss him again he kissed her in return.

His hands started to rub frantic circles on her back, and she felt his body awaken to her deepening kisses. His tongue slipped between her teeth, finding hers and gently sucking it into his mouth. He was rapidly growing hard against her inner thigh, and she couldn’t help but respond in turn. His terror had turned him desperate, and her fear fading into a flood of relief made her more than willing to comply with the increasing demands of his mouth.

She reached a hand down between him and cupped the curve of his balls, her fingertips scratching the tender skin behind. He pulled her beneath him with a growl, pinning her arm in place and lifting the other over her head in a iron grip. The fingers of his free hand dug into her hip as he pulled her into position against him.

She wanted him to drive in, to claim her, to use her to fight back against the ceaseless nightmares. But even desperate, this was still Cullen, and he stopped.

His grip on her hip loosened, and he massaged the indentions left by his fingertips. He pulled up and freed her arm from between them, twining her fingers through his as he pulled it above her head to rest with their other hands. Her elbows were inside his, and she seemed to hover just inside the boundaries he set, in a cocoon consisting of his bed behind her and his body above her.

And he _shook_ , trembling like a leaf in wind as he clung to whatever scrap of self control he had left.

“Please,” he whispered, and his voice vibrated like his body.

She rolled her hips in response. “Take what you need,” she said as his mouth came down hard against hers.

His need had woken her body up, but his restraint had flooded her with desire, and she was more than ready for him as he roughly thrust into her. She bit her lip as he looked at her in surprise and wonder, any vestiges of guilt evaporating as she rolled her hips again, needing him every bit as much as he needed her.

“Evelyn,” he breathed, and then as she pressed against him, “ _fuck_.”

Any pretense of self control disappeared, and he devoured her with every ounce of passion she had been dying to coax from him before. She pushed upwards against his hands with her wrists, , thrust her hips out to meet his, and desperately nipped at whatever skin he allowed come near her mouth. His shoulders and clavicle were decorated with dozens of tiny wounds from her teeth when she finally landed a respectable hit on his shoulder. “Fuck,” he hissed again, as she dug in her teeth and sucked, hard, against the front of his deltoid. He cried out against the pillow, desire and need subsuming the pain. The rumble of his voice against her shoulder, vibrating her skull, drove her suddenly into climax, and she arched and thrashed against him violently.

He cried out again and followed her, releasing her wrists to cling to her shoulders, pulling her down harder against him as he emptied into her.

He collapsed against her, and she wrapped herself around him, holding his weight on top of her. It limited her from taking a deep breath, but she could breathe. She couldn’t the bear the thought of distance, even inches; not now.

Minutes passed, and she thought he had fallen asleep, when his mouth began to move against her shoulder. He traced the line of her collarbone with his lips, filled the hollow of her throat with his tongue, and nibbled up the side of her neck. He kissed down the length of her jaw and she tilted her chin to kiss him, somehow still desperate for him.

“Evelyn,” he whispered, and the reverence was back in his voice.

“Hmmm?” she managed to reply.

“How are you even real?”

She laughed, the throaty chuckle that he favored, and he nuzzled his face against her neck in response.

“I am,” she said lightly, running a hand through his hair until he hummed, “the _very_ fortunate survivor of a series of _very_ unfortunate events. And if the most recent of those were overcome with any amount of aplomb, then it is only because I have fought very hard to behave in a way that was worthy of your regard.”  
Cullen went still, and when he dared breathe again, it was to pull back and meet her eyes. She tilted her head and gave him a confused smile.

“You cannot possibly be serious,” he said, and the tightness in his voice told her he believed himself mocked. “And yet I cannot fathom you would jest in such a way.”

“You think I’m kidding?” She shifted her shoulders and twisted her back to look him more directly in the eye. “You think I would kid about _this?_ Cullen, I _love you_. And I have been desperate for a way to show you that, to find out if you could possibly feel the same way for me, since the night you pulled me out of the snow and I realized I would never feel safe again without you. You took my hands and did the only thing anyone could have done to talk me down that night, when you told me you had my back, when you let me feel the armor behind me. And I had known you, what, a few weeks? We had spoken only a handful of times, and already you were the _only person_ _in my life_ who has ever known how to make me feel safe. When I’m with you I’m not a target, I’m not the _Herald,_ I’m not some nobleman’s half-forgotten half-criminal get who all of sudden is worth something because she has the hands of a thief and when a strange elven artifact rolled toward her she _just fucking had to scoop it up_. You look at me the same if I’m dressed up as a killer or as a savior, and you have _never_ judged me. And if you can’t believe me-“

He had stared at her, awestruck, as she ranted, but as her eyes filled with tears and overflowed he rolled them to his back, pulling her face into his chest and held her tight against his heart.

“Shh, Evelyn, it’s alright.” he murmured, unconsciously copying the tone he had already used to calm her twice in the past. “I am so sorry, my love. I believe you. Maker's breath, you are the only thing I have believed in since the Conclave was destroyed.”

His voice, rumbling her ear through his ribcage, mingling with the sound of his heart, only made her cry harder. But it was a cleansing cry – the first time she’d allowed herself to cry since she had awoken in the dungeon at Haven at the beginning of this whole mess. He smoothed her hair as she soaked his chest, pressed his lips to her forhead and kept up the soothing monologue until she had cried herself out.

They were quiet for a long time, then. He was stricken by how much of an impact he’d actually had on her, she was acutely embarrassed for ruining this perfect first night by becoming hysterical.

“Should I go?” she asked, more asking permission to flee than his actual opinion.

His arms tightened around her. “Never.”

She took a deep breath and pushed against him, trying to lever herself out of bed. His arms were bands of steel. “Cullen,” she complained, vainly shoving at him to get free.

“Evelyn,” he answered her evenly. She paused to look up at his face. “Shut up.”

She was offended for a second, until she remembered the exact same exchange happening the night she and Leliana had tricked him into sleeping in her tower, and she burst out laughing.

“Oh, thank the Maker. I thought for a second there I was a dead man.”

She buried her face in his shoulder, abandoning all thoughts of flight.

“I want you with me, every night we’re both in Skyhold,” he said against her hair. “I understand that won’t always be possible. I definitely don’t _expect_ it. But it’s what I want.”

“I want you with me every night, period,” she said against his shoulder, suddenly unbearably sleepy. “So let’s send Corypheus a nice note, ask him to please and kindly fuck off so we can just stay in bed together for a month.”

Cullen laughed, but before he could reply, she was already back asleep. He tucked her hands under the blanket and concentrated on the smell of her hair, of the feel of her chest pressed against his, and soon joined her in dreams.

 

*

 

They had rolled apart somewhat during the night, so when she awoke before him, she was able to rise without disturbing him. She got his office picked up, although she abandoned all hope of carting his armor up the ladder, settling for resting it gently in his chair, his gauntlets resting neatly on the stack of papers she didn’t even attempt to sort as she collected them from the floor. She even managed to clean the evidence of sex from the table top, although she was sorely tempted to leave it as a reminder for Cullen. She dragged their clothes upstairs to dress, unlocking the doors to his office at the last possible minute before fleeing up the ladder. If any early reports came in, they would find the Commander still sleeping, and nothing else out of order.

She was finishing up the lacing on her boots – she had nearly destroyed one lace in her haste to take them off the night before – as Cullen started to stir. Another nightmare, she heard, and she placed a hand to his face before he was too far in its grasp. He startled awake, and she again watched the terror drain from his eyes as he took in his surroundings.

“Another nightmare?” she asked, concerned. She hadn’t considered he would get them more than once a night.

“Yes. And without lyrium its getting worse. But I don’t mean to worry you.”

She scoffed. “Nothing worries me,” and he laughed at the blatent lie.

“Besides the demons chasing you in your sleep…. good morning?”

He sat up and brushed her hair back from her face, running his thumb over her cheek. “Its perfect.”

“I do love you,” she said suddenly. It seemed silly to fear it, since they’d both technically already said it, but the words made her heart leap into her throat. “You know that, right?”

“I love you, too,” he said gently, and with a light kiss she stood to leave.

“Did you want to see this? For future reference?” She asked, indicating the hole in the roof.

“Oh, absolutely,” he laughed, tucking his hands beneath his head and casually crossing his ankles.

She shook her head. “Made of sex,” she grumbled, and he laughed again, albeit more self-consciously.

She flashed a look at the headboard, wall, and gap in the ceiling, set her heel, and then took a running start at the bed. Cullen willed himself to stay still as her left foot hit the top of his headboard. Her body canted to the side, suddenly parallel with the ground, and her right foot propelled her off the wall. She shot straight at the hole in the roof, grasped a ridge in the stone, and then twisted her body backward. She shot through the hole feet-first, and he heard her light footfalls on the roof above him when she landed. How she got back to her tower from the roof of his without being seen, he hadn’t worked through yet… but since she could disappear in the courtyard while he was looking right at her, he knew it could be done.

He was dressed a short while later and stepping down the ladder to his office when he first realized he was going to have a rough day. His hands on the rails in front of him, he could not help but remember how he had _ascended_ that ladder the night before.

Once his feet were on the floor, he shook his head a bit, as if to clear the memories. But his gauntlets and plate sitting neatly at his desk made his heart race. She had straightened up his office, a strangely domestic touch he hadn’t expected. But worse, his boots were sitting in the same places they had landed when he’d kicked them off, and Cullen had to shift his trews and work through a few lines of the Chant of Light to find his focus. He tugged his boots on, buckled himself into his armor before his first report walked in, and in a panic remembered the doors were locked.

He hurried to open them, but found all three unbolted. Evelyn had apparently thought of everything.

….except his desk itself. The careful arrangements of reports and requisitions was a neatly stacked hodgepodge in the middle of his desk. Out of either respect for his privacy or a burning hatred of paperwork, Evelyn had avoiding setting _this_ right.

As he quickly sorted through the mess and returned it to order, he became aware of the smell of wood soap. It was subtle, but the more he moved papers around, the more he could smell it. It was almost as if someone had…

 _…cleaned his desk_. But the only reason to clean it would be if there was something _on_ it…

His skin was suddenly on fire as he ran through every detail about the night before.

He remembered the note she had sent him from the Western Approach, and he spun around to his lockbox on the shelf to free it from the other sensitive missives he stored there. It was in the only tube he’d kept, the one she’d cleverly sealed with the charred end of her dagger.

_C,_

_I wanted to wait until I had some kind of news to give you, but your comment about your desk set my skin on fire._

_I am well. I am receiving – and cherishing – the lines you send me. Varric is an unrepentant ass._

_And when I return home to you, I swear I will make it so you_ never _look at your desk the same way again._

_-E_

 

Appearing underneath, in a matching hand, a new message was scrawled:

 _I told you so_.

 

He looked hard at his lockbox, but there was no sign of the lock being picked. He was certain she hadn’t taken the time to locate the key, which was sealed in wax and stuck to the underside of a drawer.

The hands of a thief, indeed.

 

*

 

She appeared but once that afternoon, slipping into his office as a runner left, and he didn’t notice at first she was even there.

“I think I prefer the way _I_ use your desk,” she said softly from the door, and his eyes snapped up to see her leaning against the wall, precisely as she had the day before. His heart started pounding as if it was attempting escape, and his trews were immediately too tight. Something about his expression must have tipped her off, because she started laughing before pushing herself away from the wall to cross over to him.

“I think I agree with you,” he said in a low tone, willing himself to stay put. He bent his head back to the report in front of him, but the words bled together. All he could see was the exultant grin on her face, halo’d by her ruddy hair, between his eyes and the wood grain of his desk.

“Ruined?” she asked gently, her mouth almost to his ear.

He let his head fall onto his desk, smelling the faint residue of wood soap mingling with the unmistakable scent of her as she wrapped her hands around his bicep and set her chin on his shoulder.

“I despair of ever getting any work done here, ever again,” he admitted.

He was rewarded with a laugh, and her hands briefly in his hair before she retreated to the other side of his desk. He sat up and looked at her with a helpless smile.

Now that she was closer, he could see the strain around her eyes. There was something not quite right with her posture, and her laugh wasn’t as easy. “What’s bothering you?” he asked.

Her smile relaxed then, almost in relief. “How do you do that?”

He shrugged. “You spend enough time watching someone, you start to pick up on the little things. “ He couldn’t quite say it without a blush; admitting he’d been studying her wasn’t yet easy to do.

It seemed it was the right answer. Her smile widened and she gripped the side of the desk and leaned easily toward him. “I wanted to talk to you about something that happened in the Fade… before it comes up in council tomorrow.”

Cullen was reminded of the conversation they had back in Haven, seemingly a lifetime ago, after she’d escaped Envy to win over the Templars. That didn’t seem like the right thing to remind her of, so instead he asked, “No council until tomorrow?”

She shrugged. “We were all pretty exhausted after Adamant; I figured a couple days off would be good. But we need to plan a next move, and by tomorrow Leliana and you should have all your ducks in a row.”

She nodded at a soldier who came in, then; Higgins, by chance. Higgins grinned at her, giving his report to the Commander and then sketching a quick bow to the Inquisitor before leaving. Cullen scoffed. “Didn’t even _glance_ at me. You’re stealing my troops, my Lady.”

She laughed but quickly sobered and returned to her train of thought. “I gave the barest outline, before. About Stroud’s death and my memories. But there was more that happened.” She shrugged. “Of course there was more. There’s always more. But Leliana is going to ask and I need to figure out how to stay together when I say it.”

Cullen nodded, carefully holding her eyes. “I have about an hour’s worth of commitments after dinner, but beyond that I am at your disposal.”

“Thank you,” she said, and left as quietly as she’d come.

She let herself in at the appointed time, dropping through the hole in his roof while he was finishing up his work. Rather than disturb him, she sat down on the edge of the stairwell, booted feet barely visible in the deepening twilight as the lamps burned low. Cullen had been watching for her to come in through the door, and only the slow kicking of her heels in the air near the ceiling had caught his eye to announce her presence.

He put away his quill, stoppered the ink well, and made a quick circuit of the room, bolting the three doors that led from his office onto the ramparts. As he ascended the ladder, she stood hurriedly and took several steps into his room. From the top of the ladder, he could see she was almost painfully uncomfortable. He stepped slowly to her, but she avoided his eye and started to pace.

Cullen watched her as he methodically stripped his armor and sat on the bed to pull off his boots. She silently paced the room. He found himself wondering what her soles were made of, to never produce a footstep.

“We were trapped in a nightmare,” she said suddenly, the words tumbling out as if forced. The probably _were_ forced. “It was a portion of the Fade ruled by a nightmare demon. They… feast on fears.”

“I couldn’t think of anything more harmful to you if I tried,” he said gently.

She shot him a grateful glance, and he could see the strain still tightening her eyes. “I know, right? Terrible for me. But it gets better. Because there were other people, dreamers, trapped there. And I spent more time there than I really needed to, trying to help as many of those people as I could. Which is probably why Stroud had to die… if we’d gotten out faster, maybe Stroud wouldn’t have needed to stay behind.”

Cullen shook his head, started to stand, and she crossed to him and forced him back down with a hand on his head. “Not the point. I’m sorry. I don’t want to argue that with you, it’s not what I needed to talk about.”

Cullen nodded, easing back down, and she started to pace again.

‘We came across a cemetary in the Fade. There was a tombstone there for everyone in the Inquisition. And on each one was written a name and then our greatest fear, as if it was that fear that killed us. I could tell you all of them, they’re burned into my eyes. Solas: Dies Alone. Varric: Becomes his Parents. Vivienne: Irrelevance. Blackwall: Himself.”

She became restless, then, and broke up her pacing by leaping lightly onto the bed and then back to the floor. Cullen scooted back from the edge to lean against the headboard, legs folded in front of him, and watched her warily. He hadn’t seen her this restless before.

“You’re afraid of Lyrium, according to the tombstone. I figured that wouldn’t be news to you, but it surprised Hawke. But mine? Mine was empty. At least, at first glance. Only Varric stopped and _looked_   and actually saw what it said. Everyone else thought that I had no fears. Hawke and Stroud and Solas and Cassandra… they saw my name was the only word and they believed the demon when he said all my fears had been stripped away. But Varric saw.”

She paced to the wall, kicked it, strode away. “The tombstone was _covered_. The words were so small you couldn’t read them, so small they looked like texture in the fucked up light of the Fade. I guess just writing Evelyn: Everything was too easy. I didn’t stay and try to read it all… I’d still be there. But I saw enough to know. Everything that has ever scared me, everything I have ever thought of, was written on that stone. From my earliest memories.”

She stopped, then, standing in the middle of the room with her hands in her hair. Cullen quickly stood and crossed to her, pulling her into his arms and crushing her to his chest. She slowly brought her hands down from her head and wrapped them loosely around his neck.

“They all think I’m something I’m not. They believed the demon. They think I’m some fearless acolyte of their god. And I can’t tell them the truth; there are no words. None. Except Varric. Varric knows, now, that I’m afraid of my own boots.”

“Your boots?”

“Did you know scorpions will crawl into your boots at night in the desert?”

Cullen’s arms tightened around her and he valiantly refused to laugh.

“And you have to tell Leliana this, why?”

“Because they were talking. Cassandra and Varric, arguing about Sera’s fear. Nothing, it said for Sera, and they couldn’t agree on what that meant. And then everyone wanted to know what was there, whether they had a tombstone, and now the word has spread that I am fearless, that the loss of my memories stripped me of fear. And it’s not true! If anything, it gave me something _else_ to fear… now I’m afraid I’m going to wake up one morning and not have any memories. Or just one important memory missing. What happens if I wake up and I don’t remember you?”

She was near tears, burying her face in his neck. He slowly walked her over to the bed, dragging her down into the frigid covers with him, never letting his arms slacken around her.

“What are you going to tell Leliana in council tomorrow?” He asked after they were settled, and her breathing had evened out. She shrugged against him, reaching up to roughly rub the palm of her hand against her eyes.

“The truth, I guess. That the stone was just so covered with words that nobody could see them all. If Cassandra’s there, she’ll either believe me or she won’t. Leliana… Lana knows I am… We’ve never talked about it, but she knows. She has to know.”

“She does know,” he confirmed softly, remembering a conversation with the Nightingale about what kept people awake at night.

“Will they think me a coward?” she whispered, voice barely louder than a breath.

Cullen let himself laugh, then. “No one who has ever met you could believe you a coward.”

She pulled back to look at him. “But I’m afraid of _everything_.”

“And that causes you to flee battle? Abandon your friends and allies? Hide in your tower? Shirk duty?”

She shook her head, and then lowered it back to his shoulder.

“Being afraid doesn’t make you a coward. Everyone had something written on their stone, everyone is afraid of _something_. Being afraid only makes you real. The size of that demon should tell you about how common Fear is. You don’t let it rule you, you turn it into energy to better yourself and the world. There is nothing to be ashamed of.”

She was quiet for a long time, and Cullen was more than content to merely hold her, feeling their body heat slowly warm up the bedding as he ran one hand up and down her back.

“See, this is why I talk to you,” she said at last, her voice remarkably clear.

“Feel better?”

“Yes. Much. Thank you.”

He closed his arms around her gratefully. “Good. I’m glad.”

“You are too good to me by half,” she said, nuzzling into his neck. The statement tickled a memory, and he fought for a moment to pin it down, breaking into a wide grin when he did.

“I could be much better to you if you’d let me.”

She snorted a laugh against his throat, and he felt the last of the tension melting out of her. “I seem to recall that conversation going the opposite way before.”

He lifted her slightly, positioning her so she was directly on his chest and her knees rested on the bed to either side of his hips. “This conversation could end a completely different way than that one did, as well.”

And then her mouth was on his and her hands were in his laces and all of her fears were forgotten.


	17. The Road to Orlais

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unapologetically smutty. You're warned.

The Empress’ winter ball could not have gone worse, as far as Cullen was concerned.

Leliana and Josephine had conspired together to dangle him like meat in front of what could have been the entirety of the Orlesian nobility, for all he knew. And in order for Evelyn to successfully unravel the assassination plot, she had to be as far from him as possible for the majority of the night.

The insult to add to injury was the one time she made it a point to stop and talk to him, letting her fingertips rest on his wrist while she fluttered her lashes prettily at the women surrounding him. This simple sign of her regard was all she could offer him, but it drove the courtiers wild. They saw it as proof Cullen had the Inquisitor’s ear, and it somehow made him more desirable, rather than less.

And then the assassination attempt itself, and Evelyn calling for him to protect the people inside – using his given name, no less, an oversight that did him no favors – while she threw herself over the balcony in a violent duel with the Duchess. Grand Duchess? Cullen could not bring himself to care.

The Empress’ ball was a complete wash. The stately journey from Skyhold to Halamshiral and back that the Inquisition leadership made, however: that was a tiny slice of heaven.

Without discussing it, the war council set up their tents in a line just as they had in Haven, although the addition of Josephine had caused Cassandra to change up the order, so that Cassandra and Cullen took up the more defensive positions on the end, with Leliana in the middle, so Josephine and the Inquisitor had the most protection. Evelyn was very careful to complain just the right amount: too much and the tents would be moved, too little and Cassandra might suspect how very pleased the Herald was.

The rest of the inner circle was arrayed in two semi-circles around this center line. The orientation of their tents changed every time camp was struck, as no one seemed to have the same ideas about protection as Cassandra.  Then in a wide ring around them all, the small contingent of Inquisition forces that were escorting them to Halamshiral. Cullen had hand-picked the soldiers from all across the army, so that each unit was represented. He had also chosen those the least likely to start trouble in Orlais; Threnn, for example, was decidedly not invited.

Every night, Evelyn appeared in Cullen’s tent as if by magic. He never understood how she could simply _vanish_ into thin air like she did, but the only person he knew who was stealthier was Cole, and Cole wasn’t maybe even human. One minute Cullen would be writing a missive to be sent back to Skyhold, or checking daily supply tallies to make sure nothing was being wasted or left behind, and then the next minute her arms would be around his neck and his quill would be falling to his desk, forgotten. They made their bed on the ground, swathed in the extra blankets Evelyn requisitioned by insisting she felt the cold too severely in her left arm for just a standard bed roll. With no squeaking cot to give them away, and her stealth translating nicely to empassioned silence, Cullen was fairly confident that few if any heard their nighttime activities. The night patrol being directed away from the center of camp and the inevitable noise caused by hundreds of people sleeping in turns covered up any incidental or accidental sounds they might make.

The third night of their trip, when Cullen felt Evelyn’s hands up under his breastplate, deftly loosening the buckles, he was tired enough to be startled. “Maker’s Breath, woman,” he gasped. “I may hate myself for this later, but you are _insatiable_. Am I forbidden sleep?”

“In your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame, all-consuming and never satisfied,” she quoted to him softly. Andraste’s chosen using the Canticle of Threnodies in an expression of lust was surely heresy. Blasphemy, perhaps. But it did exactly what she wanted it to; Cullen was out of his chair and walking her across the tent to pile of blankets they shared in a span of three heartbeats.

She was almost better at getting his armor off than he was; she had less experience but a better angle of attack. His breastplate was dropped onto the cot he crammed in the corner to keep up appearances; it served as a way to keep their clothes off the ground at night, if nothing else.

The air in the tent was warmer than outside, but not by much. Her breath steamed in the air as he shucked her from her nondescript travelling clothes, shades of browns and greens to keep the Inquisitor from being a target, a woman seen in the world only in assassin’s blacks. “And she will know no fear of death, for He shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.”

She was quoting Transfigurations wrong; it was ‘for the Maker shall be her beacon,’ not the less specific ‘He,’ but he wouldn’t dream of correcting her. She did it intentionally, to light the fire in his veins by dripping such sin from her lips.

He had his mouth on her, then, as she fought to wrap them in blankets and furs, Cullen’s heavy cloak always the top layer.  Kissing her wasn’t enough – was never enough, anymore – and he set about a futile quest to touch every inch of her skin with his own. His tongue was drawing spirals around her navel before he realized how far he had come. Their sex before now had been almost reverent; his mouth had never ventured below her waist, his hands never past her hips. He hid his hesitation by gently biting the bottom edge of her navel, and wrapping his hands around the bones of her hips.

Her hand was on his head, then, fingers running through his hair, and she pressed her abdomen into his mouth. “Touch me with fire that I be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to your approval.”

He had never imagined the chant could be so _filthy_. His mouth found the inside of her thigh where it met her abdomen, and sucked on the tendon that was straining to hold her knees apart for him.  His hands slid under her, cupping her ass, lifting her into his mouth, and he buried his face in her.  She fell suddenly, completely silent, but Cullen knew the quieter she was, the better he was doing.

Her legs were draped over his shoulders, and he could feel the muscles of her thighs twitch and shudder as he traced the lines of her lips. He pressed his nose into her clit as his tongue rolled into her, and she spasmed with her full body, hands gripping helplessly against the thick blanket as she slowly fell apart.

“Guide me through the blackest nights,” she whispered, her voice barely  more than a breath. “Make me to rest in the warmest places.”

She’d skipped a line, he knew. In between her hands working in his hair and the way she was responding to his touch, it took him a second to work through the verse for the missing line. _Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked,_  she had deliberately left out.

He pulled away from her, fingers sliding in where his mouth had been, thumb circling the hardened nub of her clit. “Are you asking to be tempted, my love?” he breathed into her ear.

She turned her head, kissed him, and before he could react, licked his chin. Cullen closed his eyes and drew a second finger into her, fighting to maintain a steady pace. It was in vain; she was arching her back and clawing at the blankets, eerily silent in her throes.

She collapsed, sinking quickly in languor, and Cullen could not resist following the lead she had set. He moved his hand gently out of the way, and shifted his hips between hers, seeking the perfect fit between them. “Make me one within your glory,” he breathed against her throat as he pushed into her, “And let the world once more see your favor.”

Her response was instant; he knew she was fully capable of more than one orgasm, but to see a second in such a short time was unfathomable. He gave her only a few breaths to recover, and then set to building her up a third time.

Even though he could see her chest heaving with the force of her frantic breaths, see her pulse fluttering at her throat, she somehow kept perfectly silent. She let Cullen set the pace because they both know the frenzied rate she prefered rendered him incapable of self-control.

“See me kneel,” he breathed into her ear. “For I walk only where you would bid me, stand only in places you have blessed, sing only the words you place in my throat.”

Her back arched against him. Her fingers began to dig into his shoulders.  He sought to match the thrust and retreat to the standard pace of the Chant, just a touch slower than he was already going. Her eyes started to roll wildly behind her eyelids.

“Know my heart,” he whispered, pulling her left hand against his chest, long since losing any fear of the anchor. “Take from me a life of sorrow. Lift from me a world of pain. Judge me worthy of your endless pride.”

He was approaching a verse she had already used, but it seemed to incense her. “Judge me whole. Find me well within your grace. Touch me with fire that I be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to your approval.”

‘Cleansed’ was as far as she got, scrambling for a hold against his shoulders and his chest as she climaxed, her breath hissing out an almost-audible _Fuck_. Cullen was helpless to hold out any longer, and he bit into her shoulder as hard as he dared to keep his own breath from betraying them as his seed rushed to fill her.

She was wrapping him against her, then; hands and feet tugging at blankets so they were covered. Cullen thought to pull out of her, roll away and spare her his weight, but she clung to him viciously. “You are the fire at the heart of the world,” she whispered against his mouth, “And comfort is only yours to give.”

Cullen fell asleep with his head on her heart, his arms wrapped tightly around her, loins locked and her ankles around his calves, holding him close. Somehow, her heartbeat kept the nightmares at bay.

Better still was waking to find her still there, to find them unmoved in the night. He was perpetually among the first in camp to wake in the mornings, an hour or so before dawn, and so she had ample time to flee into her own tent and catch a few more hours of sleep before she was roused by Josephine, Leliana, or if she was very unlucky, Sera.

That day on the road, Evelyn noticed Cassandra looking quickly away whenever Evelyn or Cullen glanced in her direction, and an uncomfortable suspicion began to form.  It was two hours past noon before Evelyn managed to pin the Seeker down, wanting to catch her as far from anyone else who might overhear. The Seeker facilitated the Inquisitor’s quest by deciding to ride at the far back of the column. There was panic in her face when she saw Evelyn falling back to ride with her.

“Do I owe you an apology?” Evelyn asked lightly.

Cassandra winced. “I sincerely do not wish to speak of it. Definitely not with you.”

Evelyn sighed. “Hoo boy. I owe you an apology. I am very very sorry if we failed to keep ourselves silent.”

Cassandra was doing admirably well containing the blush that was fighting its way up her neck. “Its not like that,” she said brokenly. “I do not need an apology. And in the name of the Maker, do not breath a word of this to anyone else.”

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t breath a word of it to _you_.”

Cassandra took a deep breath, as if steeling herself for something unpleasant, and Evelyn made another check to see that no one was paying attention. Most importantly, Cole was deep in conversation with Solas at the head of the column, almost as far away from them as possible.

“I have long thought… Transfigurations… could have a meaning other than prayer to the Maker,” Cassandra said, and suddenly Evelyn knew.

“Oh, how awkward for you. I am so sorry, Cassandra, I should not have said anything.”

Cassandra finally flushed scarlet, hiding the color by leaning over to adjust one of the buckles on Evelyn’s mount.

“I was returning from a walk, as I had a concern about the patrol route and felt better making my own circuit of camp. It was… difficult… to hear something I had so often imagined, especially when so completely unexpected. I did not know you and the Commander had… were… oh, can we please stop.”

Evelyn sought a way to tell Cassandra she didn’t care if the Seeker used the Inquisitor’s love life as fodder for her inner romantic. She had long ago come to grips with her & Cullen’s relationship working its way into Varric’s _Swords and Shields_   serial, of which Cassandra was inordinately fond. Likely Cassandra wouldn’t want to think of that, either.

“I would rather you hear it than Varric,” she said, taking the risk. “That’s about the last thing I need ending up in one of his books.”

Cassandra looked at her in shock for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

“Oh I never thought of that. He does steal all his material, does he not? I will watch for it in his next book, and tell you if your secret it out.”

“Thank you, Lady Cassandra,” Evelyn replied with a arrogant nod. “That will keep me from running the risk of being seen with it, and inflating his head more than its already uncontrollable size.”

They easily slipped into harrassment of Varric, and the awkward moment was passed. As badly as Evelyn wanted to run to Cullen and tell him, he would be far more uncomfortable than Cassandra had, and he was easily the worst liar in the Inquisition. Except for Cole, but he maybe wasn’t even human.


	18. Less than Noble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evelyn's fit of jealousy is proven reasonable; a complete diversion from canon.

The trip back to Skyhold from Halamshiral progressed similarly to the journey previous. The only marked difference for Cullen was that the Inquisitor wouldn’t let him out of her sight.

It had never occurred to him that the Inquisitor could be _jealous_.

The attentions heaped upon him at the Winter Ball infuriated her; Josephine and Leliana had strictly forbidden her from interfering with the flirtations of the nobility.  Even the one dance they had together was circumspectly done at the end of the night, in private.  Their rooms at the winter palace were on opposite sides of the estate, and Leliana had kept a close eye on Evelyn to prevent any nighttime wanderings, regardless of Cullen’s nightmares. “He is surely tired enough from your attentions on the road to sleep soundly for two nights in the comfort of the palace.”

The first evening back on the road, as Cullen sat at his chair, feverishly trying to get caught up on correspondance with Skyhold regarding their journey home and matters that had transpired, Evelyn appeared in his lap.

He kissed her eagerly, but quickly broke away. “Forgive me, love, but I have one more to finish before I can…”

“Ignore me,” she said in response and slid slowly off his lap and under his desk,  forgoing his armor completely to focus on the laces of his trews.

How she could even fit under there, he didn’t know; it was a flimsy thing, four parts of a cube with one side and the bottom missing that cleverly folded flat for travel. Cullen hissed a surprised breath and nearly broke his quill when his hands tightened into fists as she slid her hands under the loosened waistband.

“You will be the death of me, I swear,” he said, and focused on finishing his letter as quickly as possible.

“One way or the other,” she agreed grimly from beneath him, as he felt her mouth at the top of his thigh.

“Maker, what’s gotten into you?”

“More importantly, what have you been getting into?  Trying to trade me in for some masked weasel in taffeta?”

His mind blanked for several long seconds as he tried to force his mind to work. What on earth was she talking about? Somehow the rush of blood flow downward was damaging his ability to think.

Not being able to see what she was doing made it worse; every touch was a surprise. The suspense of where the heat of her lips was going to brush next was the epitome of distracting.

“…masked…what? Trade you? No!”

Teeth nipped the opposite thigh her lips had just been addressing. He flinched, and she took advantage of the movement to loosen his trew further. Suddenly all he could feel was himself hardening against the inside of her mouth, and her tongue running up and down his length.  With his left hand clinging to the desk top, he somehow managed to add his signature to the bottom of the last missive, convinced it would be only barely legible. Maybe he could blame it on poor weather. Or maybe he would rewrite it in the morning.

He pushed the letter to the side, capping the well of ink and caring for the quill with a shaking kind of haste.  His duties reasonably discharged, he leaned back to push himself away from his desk. The change in position allowed her to slide her mouth down to the base of his shaft, her nose pressing against his abdomen. Cullen felt his breath hiss past his teeth as her cold hands reached between his legs, cupping and massaging. For several long minutes, he was completely incapable of movement.

She slid backwards off of him, allowing her teeth to drag ever so slightly against his skin, and he barely suppressed a shudder. The burst of cold when he slid from her mouth made him flinch fiercely, and before he could straighten himself up out of the chair, her hands were on his shoulders pushing him down.

The woman had somehow stripped from the waist down under his desk, and she rose from the ground and impaled herself on him in one smooth motion.

He never had a chance. He gripped helplessly at her sides as she threw herself onto him, his mind still flailing for a reason for her ire. She finished him in minutes, and he found himself biting the leather of the jacket she still wore across her shoulders in a desperate bid to keep quiet in the middle of camp.

“Hmph,” she muttered, stepping off him and casually trailing clothes on her way to their shared bedding. “Whoever she thinks she is, she’ll have to work a damn sight harder if she hopes to prevail against _me_.”

Cullen rested his head on his desk, willing strength back into his legs as he watched the sway of Eveyln’s hips as she crossed the room. Maker preserve him, he still _wanted_ her, even after being practically attacked by her mouth. The cold finally propelled him up, roughly tugging his trews into place long enough to get his armor off before stripping down and being pulled into the chilly blankets.

“Who are you talking about?” he asked as she settled him against her, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as she buried her face in his chest.

“I don’t even _know_ ,” she murmured, and he realized she was near tears.

“Evelyn, love, please. Tell me what has you so bothered.”

“Josephine has received three formal inquiries – already! – about your family and marital status. Those harpies at the ball are working themselves up into a war for your hand. The consensus seems to be, since you aren’t nobility, you would feel a sense of _obligation_   to anyone who was willing to _lower themselves_ to your rank. Like you’re the kind of man who gives two tin shits about _marrying up_. I guess the idea is to get to me through you, to force you into some kind of spousal servitude and form an alliance between the Inquisition and some idiotic Orlesian family.”

Cullen blinked at the flood of words. “You cannot be serious.”

She sobbed against him then, utterly heartbroken. “They wouldn’t let me _say anything_. I had to stand there and listen to those painted hussies discuss you like a side of meat, like you were the latest fashion and they couldn’t agree who got to wear you first.”

“You heard this? At the ball?”

_“Yes,”_ she sobbed again.

“Evelyn,” he whispered, rolling them so they were face-to-face on their sides and wrapping his arms around her. “You cannot worry about this. Of all things, not this. I have my own voice, I will say no. You must know that. Even if I didn’t have you, I would never allow myself to be a pawn in that sort of game, especially not with the Inquisition at stake.”

Evelyn shook her head furiously. “You don’t understand. _Josephine did not say no_. She didn’t say yes to any of them, of course. She doesn’t _know_   about us but she’s not heartless. And Leliana knows I would kill her, murder them both.” The cold tone she said it in made him catch his breath. He imagined it was just her distress speaking, but she sounded far too serious for his liking. “Josephine wrote back that you were unmarried, and your family was Fereldan. And then some nonsense about how the Inquisition greatly benefitted from your service and loyalty, some crap that could be taking as encouraging or discouraging depending on how you wanted it to sound. And she _laughed_ at me when I told her to just write back N-O and be done with it. Something about there being too much to gain by all the attention you’d received.”

“Then _I_   will say no, Evelyn. Please. This is not something for you to worry about. Not like this.”

She shook her head again, still sobbing.

He pressed his forehead against hers. “Evelyn Trevelyan,” he whispered, “there is no woman who could take me from you.”

If anything, she cried harder, and he despaired. But the tears gradually took on a different tone, and soon it was exhaustion and relief pouring out of her.

“On the great list of _things to fear_ , you can strike this out,” he said as she calmed. “I want no one but you.”

She nodded, finally, and he pulled her close, listening as her breath evened out and she eventually fell asleep.

Her tears had a way of gripping the edges of his madness, and his nightmares pursued him relentlessly. Meghan’s face, the only part of her still recognizable as human, cradled in Evelyn’s hands; the green of the anchor glowing through the hole in Meghan’s jaw. Evelyn’s eyes, cold and demonic, as she looked at him and stood, drawing off her clothes. _only me, only me, only me,_ it hissed. Her daggers were crystals of red lyrium, and she cut off his clothes as if skinning him, the lyrium seeding into his flesh and burning his veins. He put out his hands to stop her, then, felt his hands closing around her throat-

_“Cullen,”_  she hissed, a quick palmstrike to the abdomen forcing him awake. He opened his eyes to see his form matching his dream, his thumbs on either side of Evelyn’s windpipe.

“Maker, I am sorry. I am so sorry. Are you alright? I-“

She pulled him against her. “I’m fine. If I can’t kick your ass in your sleep I deserve a little rattling.” She ran her hands across his face as he repeated his apology over and over. “Cullen, stop, it’s fine. Cullen. _Cullen_ , stop. _Stop.”_

He caught his breath, shaking as if palsied.

“Cullen, I do not fear you. Nor your dreams. I fear only what they do to you.”

He relaxed into her arms then. She feared nearly everything; it is what gave her strength.  He had taken it as a foregone conclusion that she had feared him, that waking up to his hands around her throat would be terrifying.

“You cannot hurt me. Not _me_. Not like that. I can’t promise I won’t hurt _you_   as I wake you up, but don’t worry about me.”

“Thank you,” he managed, and then fell back into a fitful slumber.

He woke her up three more times that night, although none as bad as the first.

If Evelyn hadn’t been fighting a surge of jealousy, she would have stuck by him out of fear of his withdrawals.

Word had long since circulated around the Inquisition that Commander Cullen had stopped taking lyrium, but all accounts varied from there. Some said he was experiencing no symptoms of withdrawal, others said he was nearly dead of it, and every possibility in between was mentioned by someone or the other. Some said the Inquisitor was checking in on him at night, to determine when to relieve him of Command, while others said her body beside him was keeping the monster at bay. The only other consensus was that the two of them were mad for each other; hearing that mouthed about camp did wonders for Evelyn’s comfort.

 

*

 

She could not stay; she could never stay. They were in Skyhold three peaceful days before Morrigan arrived and drew Evelyn into conversations about the intricasies of Eluvians and the Fade, and then a week later she was off again, a scouting mission through something called the Forbidden Oasis. She wasn’t to be gone long; something to do with shards and the skulls of Tranquil that Cullen quickly decided he would rather remain in the dark about.  Cullen was picking his battles carefully now; the lyrium in his blood was running precariously low, and the nightmares were the least of his worries. Pounding headaches, body aches, and sudden full-body tremors were limiting his strength to only the things that had to be done by him. His Lieutenants were being held accountable for more and more of the tasks he had previously micromanaged. He had expected an angry retaliation, but many of them were relieved to be given more authority and a broader command.

He had made a very direct request to Josephine when they had settled back into a routine in Skyhold: do not antagonize the Inquisitor. He even scraped up the courage to tell the Ambassador that he and the Inquisitor were romantically involved, and he could not allow himself to be an enticement in Josephine’s game of favors.

Surprisingly, Leliana had a completely different idea: sit back and see which nobles actually wrote to Josephine about Cullen, and see if there was any way to find leverage. She would not actively dangle Cullen as a reward, any more than she would dangle the Inquisitor, but she was all for giving people enough rope to hang themselves with.

“Honestly, Commander, it is not anything to be concerned about,” Josephine waved off his request effortlessly. “The Inquisitor and I have already spoken of it, and she was not at all antagonized. She even offered herself as _marriage bait_   as you call it.”

“She would only do that to take the focus off me,” Cullen started determinedly. They were cut off by a messenger arriving for the Lady Josephine – another proposal from Orlais, of course – and she excused herself to go decrypt the layers of meaning in the message. Cullen slowly pounded his head on the wall.

“It will be fine, Commander,” Leliana said confidently. “The Inquisitor understands.”

“Does she?” he asked softly. “And were you there the night she sobbed herself to sleep over it?”

Leliana had no reply. Cullen left without another word.

There was one particular Comtesse, the Lady Cecille d’Lyons, who wrote Josephine weekly about Cullen. She had even reached out to Leliana, and attempted to contact the Inquisitor herself. Leliana had intercepted and destroyed that message, going so far as to kill the bird and have it left where it could be found in the Comtesse’s holdings, as if the missive had never arrived in Skyhold.

While Evelyn was in the Oasis, puzzling over the way the shards fit the doors and allowing Dorian to study the seemingly random configurations to his heart’s content, The Comtesse d’Lyons sent a formal proposal of marriage to Cullen. Cullen immediately threw it in the fire in Josephine’s office, informing the Ambassador to give the lady a firm declination, as he would not agree to write her himself. He knew enough not to open himself to correspondance with an Orlesian.

The second offer came three days later; she offered him equal standing in her holdings, effectively raising him to nobility. Surely he would not begrudge a woman so besotted she would marry so low? Cullen, infuriated, demanded Josephine stop the woman in her tracks. “So help me, if I hear of this once more I will write to the Inquisitor.”

Leliana was quick to interfere then, sending agents to the Comtesse to look for leverage to silence her attempted conquest.

Another three days passed, and another missive from Comtesse d’Lyons: she was en route to Skyhold, to meet again with the man who had so stolen her heart at the Ball, and hear his denial from his own lips.

“If she sets up shop here, she will never leave,” he sputtered.

“I admit, she is proving to be much more determined than I anticipated,” Josephine said softly.

To Cullen, she was admitting defeat. He went immediately to Leliana. “A quill,” he told the Spymaster roughly.

She gestured to one of her bird handlers, who brought Cullen a kit to write with. His message to Evelyn was short:

 

_E,_

_One of the weasels from our last venture together is en route to our home._

_Josie is outmaneuvered._

_I need you here._

_-C_

 

He rolled it into a delivery tube and sealed it by scratching his initials into the wax, CSR.

“Plucky,” he said softly. Leliana nodded, and the bird handler flinched. Baron Plucky had a reputation for ruthlessness that everyone seemed to have heard; he had cost more than one handler a finger. But he was also an unstoppable force; he had never missed a delivery.

Cullen watched as the cantankerous bird took to the sky, and he went to find Bull.

“Boss is going to kill her. You know that, right?”

Cullen nodded solemnly. “This has gotten too far out of hand. Josephine is helpless to stop it. Leliana came around far too late. And I am worthless at intrigue; I'm more likely to say something to make it worse than anything that might make this better. I'm not proud, but there's the truth. That's why I've got the armies, and Josephine handles the politics.”

Bull was nodding. “You’ll need to be relocated temporarily,” Bull said slowly. “Set your Lieutenants up to take over for a few days, like when we were all in Orlais. And then let the Chargers hide you.”

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this, but if it keeps that woman from starting a war with the Inquisition, fine.”

Bull grinned. “How do you feel about the Inquisitor’s quarters?”

Cullen wouldn’t have thought to hide there, himself, but he knew several things about that tower that he was confident Bull did not. He found himself grinning at the large Qunari. “Safer when she’s not in them, honestly.”

“I imagined no less. She’s a feisty one.”

 

*

 

Evelyn rolled in like a thundercloud, dressed in her full black, daggers loosened in their sheathes. Dorian, Varric, and Cassandra were worn thin when they clattered across the long causeway into Skyhold, having scarcely stopped for longer than needed to rest the horses in four days. They returned from the Oasis in half the time it had taken them to travel there only a few weeks before.

The Comtesse was quite obviously in residence. Everyone Evelyn encountered in the courtyard received her with either open relief or unadultered terror. Lieutenant Killeen was the first face of authority she picked out of the crowd.

“Lieutenant!” she barked. Killeen was one who looked relieved to see her. “Report.” A breath. “Please.”

Killeen grinned at her. “Got Commander holed up, only Bull knows where. Comtesse has her retainers picking the castle apart – or trying to – but we’ve got them on the run. Commander knows he can’t keep up with Orlesian politics, so he sends a new ‘get the hell out’ message three times a day. Even let me write a couple of them. Its more fun than I’ve had in years.”

Evelyn set her jaw. “So if she is thus unwanted, why is she here?”

“Risk of an international incident, Josephine has said. I guess this Comtesse is the youngest daughter of the youngest daughter of some Grand Duke, so she’s got some ties to royalty.”

“So I’m not supposed to kill her.”

Killeen winced. “Hate to say as much, but yes, Your Worship. Generally agreed to be a bad thing.”

Evelyn nodded her thanks. “I owe you a drink,” she said as he slapped Killeen’s shoulder. “Tell Cabot.”

Killeen laughed as Evelyn strode away. Cassandra was nearly dead on her feet, but kept up. “I don’t expect you to go to your bunk, Seeker,” Evelyn said over her shoulder, “so I won’t waste our time. But I do need you to get Dorian and Varric the hell out of my way. Neither one of them is going to do me any favors if they get to talking.”

Cassandra huffed in exasperation, but left to do Evelyn’s bidding.

The Comtesse was not in the main hall. Leliana was.

“What the fuck, Leliana?” Evelyn hissed as they drew near. Leliana led her to Josephine’s empty office and then beyond to the war room, leaving the door unlocked.

“I am truly sorry, Evelyn, neither Josie nor I expected the woman to be so _uncouth_.”

“I told you. I _fucking told you both_ not to use him as bait. Why do you just disregard me? You follow my lead in all other things, and then completely ignore me when the problem is the only thing I actually know anything about.”

“And that’s why you come home in full regalia? You think you can scare her into submission?”

“No. I think I can put a fucking hole in her and end this charade. I am not fucking around.”

Leliana’s eyes went wide. “You cannot be serious.”

“I can and I am. She gets one more chance to leave.”

Evelyn turned then and headed back to the main hall. The place was rapidly emptying of all servants and staff; of the assembled nobility and guests, only the avidly curious and morbidly perverse were yet present. There were more than she had hoped to see, but fewer than she had feared would turn up.

Josephine’s voice could be heard down the hall then,  coming in from Solas’ vestibule. The fastest route from Cullen’s office.

Evelyn’s jaw clenched.

“I assure you, my Lady d’Lyons, if the Commander wanted to be found, he would have turned up by now. He has given you his refusal in every way imaginable.”

“I cannot believe it, not from my Cullen,” an insufferably arrogant, nasal voice was saying in a heavy Orlesian accent. “Surely he has not been told I am here? Surely he is being imprisoned, held against his will?”

Evelyn stood on the steps to her throne, the flames of Andraste rising above her head. Her cowl was thrown back to expose her face, but otherwise she was dipped in red so dark it appeared black in all but direct noonday sun. The contrast made the green glow of the anchor more pronounced. Her hands clenched, as if holding the daggers she had not yet drawn. She very badly wanted them out, finding comfort in arms.

Josephine froze when she rounded the corner into the main hall; Evelyn had not been expected for another three days at the very earliest. Evelyn realized a bit belatedly that the Ambassador had likely never seen her in full armor, either.

The Orlesian – Comtesse Cecille d’Lyons, Vivienne’s letter had said, when the first proposal arrived – nearly walked into Josephine’s back. She scoffed as she side-stepped, and Evelyn made out the words “ungainly” and “uncouth” as the masked woman with deeply exposed cleavage and cossetted hair tossed her head in disgust. She was trailed after by two men-at-arms and a half a dozen ladies in waiting, a ridiculous show for a mere Comtesse. The Comtesse was scowling at the near-empty main hall, likely upset her entrance went unappreciated.

And then she saw Evelyn, and froze.

“My Lady,” Evelyn called from the dias. “I believe we have business to attend to, you and I.”

The Comtesse recovered quickly. “Oh, yes. We had not expected you so soon.”

Evelyn’s right hand twitched for the dagger, but she quelled it. Not yet. “I have heard you speak poorly of my Ambassador, but surely your manners are not so ill as to extend to the Herald of Andraste? The proper form of address, I believe, my Lady, is _Your Worship_.”

The Comtesse froze again, ever so briefly. This was not the simpering Inquisitor she had seen at the ball. She dropped a barely adequate bow and whispered the words in concession: “Your Worship.”

“You have come uninvited to my home,” Evelyn said then, taking a single step toward the throne and laying a hand on one arm. “You have accosted my counselors, accused my confidantes of kidnapping and extortion. You have personally insulted my friends and confederates. But out of my deepest esteem for Her Imperial Majesty, I have decided to judge you mercifully. You are hereby allowed to leave Skyhold with your retainers and retinue. I will write to Celene and forgive her for her kinsman’s behavior, and I am sure she will be pleased to work with me to ensure such _strained_ relations are not repeated.”

The Comtesse tossed her head. “I do not fear you, _Herald_ ,” she said. “You have nothing to lose and everything to gain from this arrangement. Your rudeness will not prompt me to renegotiate.”

“There is no renegotiation. You leave Skyhold – now – or you will be removed from Skyhold under whatever means necessary.”

“I will happily leave when you have granted me the Commander.”

The woman was so arrogant, so assured of her success, that she really thought Evelyn was just a clumsy novice in the Great Game, giving insult in order to drive prices. For half a second, Evelyn almost pitied her. “The Commander is his own man. He is not a bargaining chip. He is not _chattel_   to be bartered or sold. He is not like us, Cecille. He wasn’t brought up in these circles, to these games. He has no subterfuge in him. If he had wanted you at the ball, he would have _had you_ at the ball. If he wanted you now, no force on earth would keep him from you. His avoidance of you was polite respect for the sanctity of your life; because he knew _I would kill you if you touched him_.”

Her voice tightened as she spoke, until her final words came out in a growl. Cecille’s two men-at-arms drew swords and placed themselves (reluctantly) in front of Cecille.

It was too much. “You draw steel in my home? You dare?”

Cecille, eyes wide, did nothing to forestall her men, taking a step back to give them more room.

“ _You_ have drawn steel in _my home_. Vivienne, will you witness this act?”

The Lady de Fer called lightly from the balcony. “Of course, my dear.”

Evelyn nodded, then drew.

It was over too quickly, really. She was furious; while the men-at-arms were likely quite good at their jobs, they were useless against Evelyn’s rage. She forewent any tricks, although she could have sucked either of them into a rift. She did not try stealth or subterfuge. She launched herself directly at the first man, knocking him back with her first strike, disarming him with her second, and dropping him to the floor with a shallow cut across his entire forehead with her third, his eyes filling with blood.

Plant foot, pivot, parry; the second man had managed to get a swing off but she slid under it. She caught his sword with a dagger, dug under his shield with the second, and opened his armor from groin to armpit with a quick slash, careful to avoid opening his skin. The same dagger slashed the arm strap on his shield as she withdrew, and his shield clattered to floor as she chopped at his sword hand and disarmed him.

She danced two steps back, out of immediately range, and watched to see if either man would come back into the fight. She shifted her weight slowly but continuously, her dagger points low. The bleeder pushed his greatsword away and bowed his head to the floor, seemingly aware that his wound was intentionally superficial.  The other was looking at his tattered chainmail in astonishment, a thin line on his skin from the point of her dagger not deep enough to bleed. He also kicked his sword away; message received.

Evelyn turned her eyes to the Comtesse. She was still frozen to the floor, but her eyes darted back and forth between her men.

“Lady Cecille d’Lyons,” Evelyn’s voice rang, at odds with her defensive stance; “by all indications you have just attempted an assassination of the Inquisitor. How do you plead?”

Cecille collapsed on the floor with a wail, and Evelyn sheathed her daggers.

“Killeen,” she snapped. The Lieutenant had been hovering in the huge doorway that led to the courtyard.

“Yes, Inquisitor,” she saluted crisply.

“The  Comtesse is to be delivered to Val Royeaux. I believe she has a better understanding of the situation now, and will happily agree with whatever travel you arrange for her.” At a gesture from Evelyn, Killeen stepped close. “All her own stuff, trappings, whatever, but a contingent of Inquisition soldiers. I will write to Celene; you will wait for instruction before actually entering Val Royeaux.”

Killeen saluted again and vanished.

Evelyn pointed a finger at each of the disarmed guards. “As you were under direct command of Lady d’Lyons, you are not suspected of any wrongdoing. You are however forbidden from reentering the employ of Lady d’Lyons. If you have no other pressing engagements, you are welcome to submit your interest in joining the Inquisition to Commander Cullen, whenever the man has returned.”

“Returned?” the Comtesse whispered from the floor.

Evelyn crossed the distance to her and crouched a few paces away. “You have been dealt with honestly, Comtesse; every word you have heard in regards to the Commander is true. He got as far away from you as he could, and sent for me as the last possible resort. You could not have picked a more perfect gentleman to covet, regardless of your ignorant flounderings.”

Something in Evelyn’s voice tipped her hand. “You…” the Orlesian on the floor whispered. “You covet him yourself.”

Evelyn ruffled the Orlesian’s hair, adding as much insult as she could to the injury she was preparing to inflict. “You can not covet that which you already have.”

Shaking, the Comtesse lifted herself from the floor. With a gesture, she gathered her retinue around her. And with what little remained of her dignity, she walked out of the hall.

Evelyn took a napkin from the nearby table and handed it to the man bleeding on the floor. “We’ll get you patched up, son,” she said, helping him press it to his forehead.

“Thank you, Your Worship,” he gasped. Evelyn couldn’t tell if he was relieved or awed; but definitely more than a little afraid.

“Don’t worry, you won’t be training with _me_. We’ll get Cullen to train you up well enough to avoid me.”

He laughed roughly, and then closed his eyes, shaking his head weakly.

Evelyn stood and waved over the other man-at-arms. “I don’t care if you were friends or rivals before; see him to the surgeon and then report in to whatever Lieutenant you lay eyes on. By now, everybody in the keep knows what happened here.”

They both nodded and bowed, falling over themselves in an attempt to get away.

Josephine was standing in front of her then, hands on her shoulders and tears in her eyes. “You could have – I should have – oh, I am so sorry.” And the Ambassador fled.

Evelyn looked around the hall, finding the inhabitants divided between open grins and averted eyes. Krem was sitting in a chair at a table, heels kicked up and wearing a contented smile.

“Where’s your boss?” Evelyn asked without preamble.

“Tavern,” Krem shrugged. “Rumor has it, if you can survive a hit from his axe he’ll tell you where he stashed the Commander.”

Evelyn just shook her head. “I have complete faith in the Bull’s ability to hide Cullen. I must also have faith in his ability to _un_ hide the Commander. Do tell him I’m home?”

Krem nodded. With a sigh, Evelyn turned and trudged across the hall to the door to her rooms.

The stairs were impossibly high today, she thought wearily. Of course, she hadn’t slept more than a few hours in four days, and she’d just had to keep herself from killing an Orlesian noblewoman. So maybe being tired was understandable.

There was a point in the stairs, when you crossed a certain landing, than you could see her doorway, still impossibly far up. She liked to lean there, gazing at her rooms, when she wasn’t strapped for time or found she needed a moment to rest. As she took the last step to that spot, she hit the wall heavily and looked up.

“Evelyn!” Cullen’s voice cried from above her. He had been standing in her doorway, watching the stairs up. He had heard the commotion in the courtyard, but the distance had left some questions as to what had transpired. Surely Evelyn was not already returned? He watched from the balcony as Killeen raced from the main hall, calling out orders Cullen was too far away to hear. Then the Comtesse fled from the same doors, her stature so completely changed as to make her appear broken. Her men-at-arms followed a few minutes later, one of them bent over with a hand to his head.

But it was Varric, striding across the courtyard with Cassandra at his heels, that convinced Cullen that Evelyn was indeed returned. He had gone to the door to watch for her, convinced her first stop would be her own rooms.

He charged down to meet her, and she smiled weakly from the place where she leaned against the cold stone of the tower. “Maker’s Breath,” he said as he drew near, “how did you get here so quickly? We didn’t expect you for days yet.”

Evelyn reached out with both hands to cup his cheeks. “You said, ‘I need you here.’ So here I am.”

He faltered for a moment, torn between hugging her and sweeping her off her feet. The pallor of her skin and exhaustion in her smile swayed his decision, and he leaned down to scoop her into his arms.

“I would argue,” she said as she leaned her head against his shoulder and he started up the stairs, “but I know you have carried me up the whole damn tower before, and this time at least I’ve already covered half the distance for you.”

“Not being dead weight in my arms is a decided bonus as well.”

Evelyn laughed weakly, and tightened her arms around his neck.

They were in her rooms in a flash, door bolted behind them and Evelyn sat on the chest at the foot of her bed.   
“Everyone lived, I see,” Cullen tried, conversationally.

“Well.” Evelyn started, pausing to yawn. “I didn’t end any physical lives, no. But I might have accused the Comtesse of trying to assassinate me, which I will word as strongly as possible in my letter to Celene.”

Cullen gaped at her. “I will tell you the story, my love, I promise. But in this exact moment, all I can do is sleep.”

She started undoing the buckles that held on the tight leather armor, and Cullen slapped her arm away. “Just hold on to me, keep yourself upright,” he told her.

She collapsed wearily against his shoulder. “Is it bad that I’ve always wanted you to rip this off me?”

“Not even remotely,” he agreed with a smile. “we will have to reschedule that for a time you can better enjoy it.”

With some softly spoken direction and the occasional demonstration, Cullen extracted Evelyn from her armor. She was red-lined and blackened under it, the dye rubbing off at the seams from being worn for many days straight without a break.

Evelyn made a face. “I should bathe. I really should. But I think I would go under and drown.”

Cullen swept her back into his arms and then deposited her in bed. “Bathe later. Sleep now.”

“Cullen?” she whispered, and he sat on her bedside. “Are you alright?”

He smoothed her hair back, kissed her temple. “I promised you once, I would hold nothing back. If there was anything you needed to know of me, I would tell you. You remember?”

She nodded wearily.

“I am much the same now as I was when you left. But now that Josephine seems to have learned her lesson, and I am removed from the hook, I cannot help but feel much improved.”

Evelyn smiled; the expression stayed in place as she drifted to sleep.

Cullen unlocked the door then, knowing the Inquisitor’s belongings would be brought to her rooms and the water drawn for a bath for when she wakened. She professed to being a light sleeper, but Cullen knew from experience she slept soundly when she thought him near. He was convinced she could sleep through almost anything right now, as weary as she was.

Waiting for the inevitable parade up the stairs, Cullen let himself onto the balcony, to watch the slowly churning chaos that was the Inquisition fortress of Skyhold. From here he had seen three separate changes to be made to the organization of supplies and personnel in the courtyards, and concocted uses for the as-yet-empty and unrepaired tower rooms.  He had kept in contact with his men through Krem – whose position in the main hall was no accident – via messages from Dagna in the undercroft or Leliana in the war room. It had started as a retreat but ended up a very enlightening change of scenery.

It was hard to abolish the thought that he could get a lot accomplished from the Inquisitor’s quarters. Surely sleeping directly above his office was unneceesary?

He was lost in thought, watching the flow through the courtyard, when the Iron Bull caught his eye. The Qunari was leaving the tavern, striding across the hard-packed earth to stand directly in front of… the Comtesse. As one, the Bull and the Orlesian looked up – directly at where Cullen was leaning on the balcony. The Comtesse crumpled to the ground, and Bull kept walking, headed into the main hall. Cullen laughed, knowing what the Bull’s next stop would be, and waited for him on the balcony.


	19. The Precipice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fluffy interlude.

Evelyn felt she owed it to Cassandra, Dorian, and Varric to spend a little more time in Skyhold before leaving again. She had a pressing need to visit the Hissing Wastes, to corner the Venatori presense there.  But it was a long ride – further even than the Forbidden Oasis – and she had subjected them to a brutal flight back to Skyhold.

In exchange, they spent two full weeks in the keep. Varric took the opportunity to draw them all into a game of Wicked Grace, which ended disastrously for Cullen.

Cullen’s attempt to talk to Bull a few days later _also_ ended disastrously for Cullen, as he (and Josephine, and Cassandra) walked in on Dorian’s morning-after with the Qunari.

Cullen wasn’t on a winning streak, to be honest.

Even his nights with Evelyn were rapidly degrading, as the last of the lyrium trickled out of his system, and the withdrawals got progressively worse.

“I have a lead on the Venatori,” Evelyn said to him one afternoon as they walked the battlements – she having decided he needed a break from work. “But it’s in the Hissing Wastes. I have other things I could be doing… that dragon in the Emerald Graves, I really owe her one. Or there’s a dragon offshore of the Storm Coast, we could take Varric up there and really piss him off.”

“So that’s what you’re down to?” Cullen asked, laughing. “A weeklong trek to the west to hunt Venatori, or a shorter safer trip around the dragon hunting circuit?”

“That or I try to throw myself into an Eluvian for shits and giggles. But I’m trying to stay close. Until you’re feeling better.”

Cullen stopped in his tracks. “That’s why you’ve put off leaving?”

Evelyn waved a hand dismissively. “It’s the selfish reason why, but definitely not the only one, or even the most pertinent. After the rough ride home I subjected Varric to, if I tried to put him on a horse again he might start carving my name into crossbow bolts.”

Cullen frowned. “So, also, because of me.”

“This is not going how I imagined.”

“You cannot put my needs above the Inquisition. My withdrawals will mean very little if the world collapses around me.”

“The world will mean very little if you collapse around _me_ ,” Evelyn said softly.

Cullen took her by the arm and spun her around, pinning her to the crenulated wall and kissing her breathless.

“I love you,” he said when he let her come up for air. “You are the fire at the heart of my world, my only source of comfort. And if the world were to be swallowed into the Fade tomorrow and we all perish in a storm of demons,  I would meet my end content to have you beside me, knowing we did what we could to stem the tide. So much of what I love about you is how you have turned your inner fears into this incredible power to do right. You cannot set that aside for me. You cannot allow a fear for me, for my well being, to turn you from your task. I must trust you to see to yourself out in the world, knowing you will send for aid if you are overwhelmed. You must trust me to do the same.”

“It has nothing to do with trust, Cullen,” she replied, lips brushing his as she spoke. “You must know that. You are the only place in this world that I feel safe, the only time in my life I have even understood what safety _was_. If given the choice between standing beside you to see to it you are well and whole, or facing a flood of Venatori…? Of course I will choose you. I will choose you every time.”

“So do you force me, then? Must I physically send you away?”

She shook her head, smiling against what they both knew was a very empty threat. “Fear not – the task of sending me to my doom will not fall to you. Leliana holds that honor; Harding is expected to write any day with an update, at which point I will have only the selfish reasons remaining to keep me here. I will be gone within the week, sirrah. Calm your conscience.”

Cullen pulled her close to him again. “I would give anything to have things be simpler between us. A life spent without so much hanging in the balance, the luxury to love and be loved in peace.”

“I keep offering,” she said between kisses to his throat, “I’ll write that letter to Corypheus and ask him to please fuck off.”

Cullen laughed then, finally able to catch her mood. “Please do. Let me know how it works.”

They were found, then, as they always were, by one of Cullen’s Lieutenants – Killeen this time, returned from her escort of the Comtesse d’Lyons to Val Royeaux. Her report was for Evelyn – a first when it came to their interruptions – but she had a verbal brief for the Commander, and Evelyn excused herself so that Cullen could be drawn back into his work.

He was right, of course. Her standing by his bedside would not keep the lyrium withdrawals from killing him, if that was his lot. But her hesitation to confront the Venatori in the west could contribute to the ultimate failure of the Inquisition, the success of Corypheus; whether or not Cullen successfully purged the lyrium from his veins would mean nothing if the world was lost.

When Harding’s report arrived – the next morning – Evelyn was ready to depart. Cassandra, Varric and Dorian were again slated to travel with her. Varric had insisted on coming of late for material for the book he felt he was destined to write about the early days of the Inquisition. Dorian was eager to be away, spouting off how  “Absense makes the heart grow fonder,” although whether he was worried about his heart or Bull’s was anyone’s guess. Cassandra had fought alongside Evelyn for so long now that the Inquisitor was loathe to travel without her.

Not that she had many options. Evelyn didn’t want to spend weeks on the road with Dorian and Bull together, not yet. And Blackwall was a sore point of contention; Evelyn’s conversation with Empress Celene regarding the Comtesse ended up encompassing an arrangement to have the man now known to be Thom Ranier transferred to the Inquisition dungeon in Skyhold. Evelyn had deliberated bitterly before deciding to give him to Weisshaupt when everything was said and done. He knew too much about the Inquisition to be released, which was also the reason to keep him out of Orlesian dungeons. And his attempt to make things right had prompted the surprisingly romantic Celene to encourage amnesty.

But if Evelyn couldn’t trust him to tell her his fucking _name_ , she couldn’t trust him to put his shield in the right place. Blackwall stayed behind.

She left but two days after her conversation with Cullen on the battlements.  She openly spent that last night in his chamber, bringing her luggage with her when she walked in his door  that evening. Cullen eyed the saddle bags and pouches as she dropped them just inside the door, but said nothing.

“I don’t care,” she said, head up and eyes flashing. “We’re idiots if we think the entire Inquisition doesn’t know about us. And I refuse to let anyone think I’m ashamed of this, of us. They can watch me walk in the front damn door and walk out the same fucking door in the morning. Let them _talk_.”

Cullen came around his desk and pulled her into his arms. “I was meaning to ask you about that,” he said, and she was surprised to see him start to blush. The man hadn’t colored when talking to her once in weeks; something about the night she crawled under his desk and ravished him seemed to have eliminated his ability to be embarrassed.

“I was awful fond of the view from your balcony,” he started, but Evelyn immediately interrupted with a “Yes.”

Cullen started to laugh. “I haven’t even gotten to tell you all my very intellectual and strategic reasons.”

“Other reasons? Great. Will you be moved in when I get back, or will I show up and steal your things in the middle of the night?”

Cullen bowed his head to hers, so their foreheads touched as he laughed. “And here I was so worried you would think me-“

“Nope. Didn’t answer the question. Can we move you in now? I could call Aieyla, she and Mahvrin would love to help.”

The elf couple had the only other repaired room in Evelyn’s tower, and were endlessly devoted to the Herald who had reunited them.

Cullen laughed again, then stepped away with a shake of his head. “We can wait until you return, I’m sure. I would only miss you more, in your rooms without you.”

“Fair enough. But I would like to formally complain that we have _never_   been naked together in my bed.”

Cullen thought about it for awhile – but she was right. Their romantic overtures had always caught them in his office or on the road to Val Royeaux; if Evelyn was in his bedchamber, it was generally because she had come in through the gap in his ceiling while he slept. This was truly the first time she had made no attempt at denying her sharing the Commander’s bed, and he had never attempted to share her’s.

“I will take it under advisement,” he said in his most official tone. “I will appreciate the opportunity to rectify that unfortunate oversight at your first convenience once you have returned to Skyhold.”

She sauntered back to him wickedly. “Well, then, if we’re agreed…?”

Cullen nodded.

“Then I propose we have a suitable send-off for your desk. We can sneak down to your office, of course, but it won’t ever be the same once we officially have shared apartments.”

Cullen immediately swept her off her feet and carried her to the desk, swinging her so her arm did the honors of knocking everything off the tabletop before he laid her atop it, laughing.

“The door! The door!” she managed between giggles, and he stepped away from her for just long enough to bolt all three doors and peel off his armor. The desk had served them well, and deserved a proper farewell.


	20. The Weight of Duty

Cullen had promised to write her while she was in the Wastes, just as he had when she was in the Western Approach. They had fallen out of the habit, but with his withdrawals worsening, it was the easiest way for Evelyn to be reassured he was well.

Still, she went nine days with no word, as she had to send the first few ravens back from their camp before any would be able to find their way to her. The Hissing Wastes were aptly named, and the scouts had a terrible time locating anything of use in the massive expanse. But the Venatori were here and were moving, and Evelyn took over the correspondance with Skyhold from Harding, sending the dwarf home for some well needed R&R.

 

_Nightingale,_

_I met the world’s cutest dwarf today. I convinced her that you & her should get together sometime. I bet you’ll hear from her soon._

_This place is aptly named. I know I promised to avoid profanity in my missives, but it is just fucking huge. No other words._

_I have absolutely no news for you. None. Just needed a reason to get rid of a bird.  Save a leg for Curly._

_Knuckles_

 

It was a lie, of course – telling Leliana that Harding was en route back to Skyhold was critical information for the safety of the scout. And saying she needed to get rid of a bird was a hidden plea for an update from home, which Leliana would surely see instantly.

She sent two more birds before she got one in return, mentally noting it would take three days for a raven to win through to her, so far from Skyhold and against the prevailing winds. She counseled the bird handler in her camp to send all the birds home that they had brought before cycling through the ones who returned from Skyhold; the longer they had to recover, the more likely messages were to win through.  Evelyn also made it a point to bring fresh meat into camp every day for the ravens, knowing the trail rations of the Inquisition would be a poor substitute diet.

The first letter from Leliana was as rote as Evelyn’s had been; a quick column of shorthand that gave updates on all pertinent issues. _IB/C intox d/2 DP_   was the first line, and it made Evelyn throw her head back with a cackle of glee. Iron Bull and/or his Chargers were drunkards in Dorian’s absense, it roughly translated to.

Varric quickly scooted over to her, to read over her shoulder. “You’re missed, Dorian!” she hooted at the mage, showing the line to Varric, who joined her in laughter.  Dorian was pleasantly miffed to be so addressed, but they could lure no other comments out of him.

 _CC worse/endure_   took the laugh right out of Evelyn, and she scrambled for the other tube that had come on the raven, the familiar markings indicating it was for her eyes only.

 

_E,_

_Lana gave me the welcome news you had arrived safely, and sent our mutual friend home._

_It occurs to me I never did get the opportunity to show you the journal from your time in the West._

_I intend to finish filling it while you are away this time. I pray it will help bring me peace._

_-C_

 

His handwriting was even, the familiar scrawl she had seen on reports these past many months. That he was praying for peace was a striking way to tell her he was struggling, but she expected no less. This trip would be long and arduous for them both.

Varric quickly regretted coming along on this trip. “Everything is just too damn dwarfy,” he said, as they fought their way into a third dwarven tomb. The rifts here were the worst they had seen, as well; likely linked to the increase in Venatori activity, but Evelyn suspected she would never really know where and why they spawned.

It took two weeks to finally piece together the location and means of entering Fairel’s tomb, and _of course_   there was a high dragon sleeping on its door step. It was already late in the day, so they withdrew back to the mountain fortress camp to rest and plan their attack for the morning.

Their travel around the Wastes had added another day to the time it took messages to reach Evelyn from Skyhold, as the birds were flying into the Cove Camp.  Evelyn established a scout patrol that traveled between the camps every day, and a second that ran to her last known location with all missives. She had awoken in the mountain fortress camp that morning, so whatever messages had arrived during the day, she expected them to turn up there. The Inquisitor made it a point to always open Leliana’s messages first, as Cullen’s either left her despondant or distracted; the former seeming to happen more than the latter as his withdrawals were getting markedly worse. The missive from Leliana was rather precisely dated, which Evelyn generally reserved for her last missive from an outpost before leaving a region. She was briefly at a loss for what Leliana might have considered time sensitive.

 

_Knuckles,_

_CC confined to chambers. Iron Lady, others confirm last of L has gone. Chuckles, IB/C in attendance. Information kept to inner circle and lieutenants only. Request advice from SCP._

_-Nightingale_

 

Evelyn’s stomach dropped to her shoes. She passed the missive to Cassandra – Seeker Cassandra Penteghast, SCP. Without looking at the Seeker, she unrolled Cullen’s missive.

 

_E,_

_If you are reading this, it is because I am unable to write to you. The poison has drawn from my veins; I have gained my freedom, though I cannot yet see at what cost._

_You are doubtless in contact with Lana. You are not, under any circumstances, to step away from your work._

_You do not need to be here for me to know you are beside me in this, as in all things._

_Know I love you, that I have loved you from the first day we stood across the map table, though I did not yet know what I had found. You have made every moment of this worthwhile; justified and validated my battle; granted me sweet reprieve and a completely new appreciation of the Chant._

_Keep yourself safe._

_-C_

 

“Evelyn?” It was a particularly bad sign that Varric was calling her by name.

She was on her knees in camp, staring at the missive from Cullen in horror.

“He’s dying,” she said, her voice a whisper. And hearing it from her own mouth shocked her to tears as the truth shot home. She rubbed her eyes violently, standing and holding the missive to her heart as if it was a bandage over a sucking chest wound. “He’s sent me a letter he pre-wrote in case he… died. Or was dying.”

“How long ago?” Dorian said gently from the opposite side of her as Varric. Their disembodied voices seemed to float around her as reality swirled. For a moment she wondered if she had opened a rift and stepped back into the fade. “Three days, plus some,” Cassandra replied, reading from Leliana’s message. “This was mailed four mornings ago."

There was a long silence as they all did the math. “He could already be gone,” Cassandra said, ignoring Varric’s disappointed hiss. “And if he is going to fall to this, it will be long before you could return. The Commander is strong, but what he is attempting is unprecedented.”

Evelyn took two steps towards the Waste, stopped. She opened her eyes and stared into the seemingly infinite sand, heard the hiss as the wind blew the dunes endlessly against one another. The Herald of Andraste looked out into Nothing and, for the first time, allowed herself to be afraid.

He was dying – or dead – and there was absolutely nothing she could do for it. Her blades, her stealth, her speed could do nothing for him. The next words she read from Skyhold might be of his valiant fall.

She felt the tremors start, let them wash over her. She was vaguely aware of a commotion behind her, of Dorian holding Varric and Cassandra away from her.  She shook, the core of her being quivering in abject terror.

For the first time in her life, rather than deny it, she _wallowed_  in it. She let herself sink in up to her ears, be washed over by wave after wave of fear. _Helpless. Alone. Afraid._

“Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion should they set themselves against me.” Cullen had told her, once, after her long-buried fight with Envy, that the Canticle of Trials had often helped him. She had read it many times, then, but never actually chanted it aloud.

“Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder.”

Cassandra choked out a little gasping sob behind her; Varric was patting her on the shoulder. But the Seeker raised her voice and joined the Inquisitor on the next verse.

“Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker’s Light and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

Evelyn turned to them, then. Dorian and Varric with their arms around Cassandra, the Seeker stricken with sadness in empathy for her friend. “Draw your last breath, my friends. Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker’s right hand, and be Forgiven.”

The Inquisition soldiers and scouts in the camp were silent; never had any heard their Herald speak the Chant;  Varric mumbled this was the kind of thing that could make believers out of anyone.

The sand hissed across the wastes, and Evelyn was still afraid. But she had always been afraid. For the first time, she felt no shame in it. “We’re killing a dragon tomorrow,” she said, voice only loud enough to cut through the wind. “We’re entering Fairel’s tomb. And then we’re going home.”


	21. Freedom

Evelyn slid down the dragon’s nasal bone as she jerked her daggers free of the great beast’s skull.

“Are you sure rogues can’t be beserkers, Cassandra?” Dorian asked mildly, shaking the sand out of his clothes.

Cassandra shook her head. “Not _supposed_   to be. But there appears to be a first time for everything.”

Evelyn gave them enough time to catch their breath before placing the key fragments into the door and entering Fairel’s tomb. The artifact inside was underwhelming; Varric didn’t know what it was, and Solas wasn’t here to wax poetic on any theories. Evelyn carefully packed it away and led them out of the tomb.

It was late afternoon when they returned to camp. Evelyn dispatched what soldiers could be spared to drag back the body of the dragon, her scales, claws, and bones too valuable to leave for the sand to claim. Similarly, their next task was to itemize and prepare for shipping the myriad of supplies and components Evelyn had acquired from the Wastes. Then, her activity done, Evelyn sat down to write to Leliana, not trusting herself to attempt anything for Cullen.

 

_Nightingale,_

_I have fought my way through sand and ruin. I received your missive yesterday eve and made note of the time._

_I know not how long my return voyage will take, and I know not whether I will see Home again. But please make sure my flight is noted, as is my fulfilled duty._

_Knuckles_

 

Evelyn was calling for a raven and sealing the missive in a carry tube when a bizarre commotion arose at the other end of the small camp. Striding over to see for herself, Evelyn was struck dumb by the new arrival before her.

The Bog Unicorn was walking into camp, an Inquisition raven perched delicately on its saddle. The other horses in the picket went wild, including Evelyn’s favored charger. Evelyn strode forward and collected the bird while letting the spirited horse nuzzle against her hand.

It was an unnerving creature, killed with a sword through the skull that had lodged in the bone and formed a grotesque horn. Cole told her it had been filled by a spirit of Loyalty; while it was truly undead, it wasn’t technically an abomination. Or maybe it _was_ an abomination but it wasn't undead? Evelyn had never mastered the distinction. Somehow, the spirit of Loyalty had latched on to her. Cole and Solas thought it had something to do with the anchor, and how she’d walked physically in the Fade.

The raven was a more welcome sight, and Evelyn quickly drew the messages from its talons and handed it to the bird handler for a meal and a routine examination. The fear was a knot in her chest as, hands shaking, Evelyn unrolled the missive. The first line whelmed her to her knees.

 

_Knuckles,_

_We endure._

_I know what the other missive you received yesterday said, and I would  tell you only to not to allow duty to tangle with love._

_I have loosed from the stables a mount that will not tire._

_Nothing else here is noteworthy. What needs done is being done, and all else revolves around the prayers for my friend._

_Nightingale_

 

Evelyn did not attempt to rewrite her response. She added a quick line to the bottom, under her signature:

 _I shall endure_.

She was confident Leliana would note that they both referenced the same verse of Trials 1.

 

“Cassandra,” Evelyn called, making a rash decision. The Seeker trotted over at once from where she had been soothing the horses. “Please stop me before I do anything irrational.”

Cassandra canted an eyebrow at her, and not for the first time, Evelyn was deeply grateful for her secretly romantic friend. “Why are you still here?”

Evelyn grinned at her, an honestly happy expression. “Hey. Thanks for not killing me, that one time.”

Cassandra slapped her in the shoulder, then stepped away to scoop up a small pack of rations. “Travel light, travel fast, stay hidden. We will follow at our own pace when we can. Worry not. All three of us have crossed worse lands alone.”

Evelyn stopped briefly to set fly the raven to Leliana, the date and time scratched on the seal of the tube. It was late in the day, shadows stretching toward the east. The Bog Unicorn pranced impatiently, impervious to fatigue and sensing her desire to be off. Varric raised a hand in solute, and Dorian called for her to get a move on. Evelyn, still clothed in her black armor, draped her darkest cloak over her back, pulling the hood to hide the glints from her face and the dagger hilts protruding over her shoulders. She mounted the felsteed and gave him the rein.

She had never moved so fast. She had never been alone on an Inquisition mount to really run it through its paces, always balancing the need for speed with reserving stamina. The “unicorn”  didn’t so much run as throw himself through space. Night fell in the desert, and the horse ran on.

Evelyn felt herself falling asleep on its back, and pulled them to a halt, somewhere deep in southern Orlais. She wrapped herself in her cloak and slept on the ground, the felsteed standing over her.

She was awake just before full light, and the spirited horse nuzzled into her hand, accepting nothing but a bit of water, eager to be off. Evelyn climbed back into the saddle, and they were gone.

She couldn’t quite believe her eyes when the Frostback mountains loomed in the distance, nor how quickly they seemed to rise up until suddenly she was racing north along the ridge of the mountains. The horse was as fast as a raven.

The stopped again for a few hours late that night, just enough rest so that Evelyn didn’t lose her seat; a fall at that speed would be deadly.

By noon they were in the familiar approach to Skyhold, and Evelyn barely contained her tears when the ancient road materialized beneath their feet. She did not dismount before the gate, nor wait for her name to be announced to the guard. The only person who she cared to have know she was home could not hear the clarion call of welcome, and so she ran through without waiting for the honors they had long insisted on giving her. The horse’s hooves sounded strange as she pounded against the causeway, and Evelyn didn’t know if it was from fatigue or the fear that pounded through her veins.

The tower her rooms were in was gilded in the sunset, and Evelyn only risked a brief glance up. There would be black banners hung if Cullen had died, just as there had been for Chancellor Roderick, and after the siege of Adamant, to honor the soldiers lost. The standard Inquisition banners flapped lazily in the mountain air, and Evelyn allowed herself to hope.

She swung off the felsteed, stopping only long enough to breathe a long string of thank you’s in every language she had come across; elven, dwarven, qunari, common. The horse nuzzled her hand again – always the left, she noted belatedly – and pranced happily to the stables.

It was then Evelyn realized the courtyard was silent.

It was full; full to the walls. But every eye was upon her, and no one moved.

Lieutenant Killeen was there, then, striding forward from the crowd. “Inquisitor,” she said crisply.

“With me,” Evelyn replied, and made for the main hall.

“We received word not three hours ago that you were en route. You made… remarkable… time.”

“Let no one speak ill of that horse ever again,” Evelyn said by way of reply. Killeen swallowed thickly, but made no comment. It was hard not to like Killeen.

“Noted, Your Worship. The Commander has taken ill. He has been confined to your quarters.”

“Status?”

“Officially? Unknown. But, Inquisitor-“ Killeen stopped, risked a hand to Evelyn’s arm and spun her around to meet the Lieutenant’s eyes. “Inquisitor, we all know damn well it’s the lyrium. And no one has ever lived as long as he has. Nobody knows, but _everybody knows_.”

“Understood, Lieutenant,” Evelyn heard herself reply. _He lives, He lives, He lives,_ The only thoughts in her head. “I will see to it more reliable information is provided, to put your minds at ease if possible.”

She pulled loose, let her feet lead her to her apartments at the top of the tower. She could feel the ripple of silence around her as she cut through the swarms in the main hall, and she realized that coming in fully armored from the field, cloak cast and hood drawn would likely give anyone pause, especially after what happened with Cecille.

The stairs disappeared behind her, and her hand was on the latch to her door. It was locked.

She lifted a fist to pound, but the door swung open and she met Solas’ startled eyes. He said something that could only be a swear – Evelyn had not learned much elven – and drew her into the room.

“I know not how you did it, Trevelyan, but you are not a moment too soon.”

Evelyn shrugged out of her cloak and laid her daggers atop it as she assessed the situation before her, fighting to keep the calm she had found in the Wastes while the fear surged around her.

Cullen was bound by the wrists in her bed – what should have been _their_   bed, Fear wailed – although his arms lay limply to his sides. His legs were _not_  bound, and Evelyn assumed he had woken up and gotten his hands around someone’s throat. Mahvrin was wearing a high collared shirt, so she suspected he had been the victim. Evelyn was glad he was alright – she would think of some way to apologize later.

Cullen was awash with sweat, and seemed diminished, somehow. Krem was sitting in a chair near the balcony; the other chairs laying around suggested some or other of the Chargers were rotating through the room. Aside from Mahvrin near the bathing chamber, no one else was in attendance.

“He is waking, sporadically,” Solas said when her sweep of the room was complete and she snapped her eyes back to him. “He is taking broth and water, and he is getting a restorative potion daily, spooned into him when he is unconscious. He will gradually waste away if we cannot waken him. The worst seems to the be fever, which has no natural origin. His mind is the source of his danger at this point: it believes he cannot survive without lyrium, and so it is trying to die.”

“But his body has come through the withdrawal?”

Solas nodded. “The lyrium is completely gone, but for the twisting effect it has on the psyche. I dare not approach him in the Fade; he has known the attack of too many demons, and his sickened mind summons them as he dreams, as the closest thing it can get to the feel of lyrium. We must either reach him, convince him to fight against the damage the lyrium has caused in his brain; or we must watch him die.”

Evelyn nodded, eyes settling on Cullen’s beleagured form.  As if he felt her gaze, he stirred slightly, and whispered “…Rest at the Maker’s right hand, and be Forgiven.”

“I have an idea,” Evelyn said to Solas. “Do you trust me?”

“It matters not if I do; you can only help at this point. But yes, I trust you.”

Evelyn nodded to herself. “All of you, then. Get out. Station someone at the door so I can send for you if anything changes. And tell Lieutenant Killeen that the Commander yet breathes.”

Mahvrin launched for the door, eager to be elsewhere. Krem rose more slowly, but followed the Inquisitor’s command. Solas was much more hesitant. “I cannot help you if I am not present, Trevelyan.”

He had never called her by her given name; she hadn’t ever wanted to know why. She could admit, now, to be afraid of the answer. “You have already helped. And you will help again. But right now he needs to be reminded to live, and if he wakes and sees you it will only confuse him.”

Solas nodded. “I will sit at the door myself, Lethallan.”

Evelyn followed him to the door, latched it behind him but did not throw the bolt. She trusted Solas to be discreet.

Seeing Cullen yet slumbered, she stopped in her bathing chamber to quickly wash and dress, pulling on the ivory jacket and pants she commonly wore in Skyhold but forsaking her boots.

She crossed the room, climbed into her bed, and sat cross-legged on Cullen’s thighs, her ankles crossed below his navel. Her weight set him stirring again, and he repeated the phrase, a verse of the Canticle of Trials.

She slapped him, hard, across the chest. “No,” she said.

His eyes opened, swam into focus. “…Draw your last breath, my friends-“

She slapped him again, across the right pectoral muscle. “No.”

He looked at her, no recognition in his eyes. “Maker,” she intoned, catching the rhythm of the Chant, “my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me.” Cullen blinked, his head wobbling on his neck. But his voice weakly joined her’s and they worked their way through the Canticle of Trials. When he got to that verse – “Draw your last breath, my friends” – she slapped him again. “No.” And started him back at the top.

The fourth time through, he was very nearly fully awake, and frustrated to the point of fury. When she slapped him, in the exact same spot she had before, a red handprint appearing on his chest, he surged up from the bed, pulling his arms against the bonds with a roar.  
“You don’t get to die yet, Cullen!” She screamed in his face, and suddenly he was awake. Recognition swam into his eyes, and he gasped her name.  
“Transfigurations 12. With me. Cullen, say them with me.”

He nodded, his mouth tumbling over the words as she led him. His years of training in the Chantry made the words reflex. She was afraid he would fall asleep before they got where she needed him to be, but he somehow had the strength to carry on. She put her hands on his shoulders and helped him stay seated upright, uncrossed her ankles and clamped her knees to his waist to give him more stability.

“For You are the fire at the heart of the world,” Cullen  whispered, “And comfort is only Yours to give.”

“Cullen,” she said, and his eyes snapped open again. “Say it again.”

“Comfort is only Yours to give.”

“Again.” And she spoke the words with him, jabbing him gently with her finger in time with the word “yours.”

He looked, astonished, at her finger, and then blinked at her. She could see the memory fighting to surface. 

“My comfort comes from you. Cullen. I need you here. I will know no fear of feath, for He shall be my beacon and my shield, my foundation and my sword.”

He shook his head, frustration crossing his face as he fought to remember where he had heard it before, why it was wrong, why she would say the chant wrong.

And then he was overcome, and he fell backward in to sleep.

With a sigh, Evelyn stood up. She was close. She would try again. She fetched Solas from the stair and they carefully spooned water into Cullen’s mouth, tipping his head back to make sure he didn’t choke. She convinced Solas to give Cullen a full healing potion, like what they carried in the field; they had switched to regenerative potions because they gave him strength gradually rather than all at once, and he was less likely to rage.

“I can handle his rage,” she said mildly. “I need him awake.”

Solas gave her the potion and let himself back out of the room. She tilted Cullen’s head to the side and dribbled the potion into the side of his mouth, rubbing his throat to help him swallow.

He got half of it down before he stirred, stuck again on the last lines of Trials 1. She put the rest of the potion in his mouth then, forcing him to drink, and he coughed and spluttered as it ran down his throat.

He threw his head from side to side, voice suddenly strong as he chanted, “Rest at the Maker’s right hand, and be Forgiven.”

 _“NO!”_   Evelyn said, and slapped him directly on the searing red hand print.

He growled, but followed her lead through Trials, only getting to the end twice and being denied the request for forgiveness before throwing himself against his bindings.

She led him through Transfigurations again, his military training forcing him into submission to a direct command. And when she poked him in the chest, “Comfort is _only yours_ to give,” his eyes snapped open, and he _knew_.

“Evelyn,” he breathed.

“Stay with me, Cullen,” she responded. “I need you here. I need you to keep me safe.”

“Evelyn, I am so sorry. I can’t.”

“You can, Cullen. You already have. You’ve won. You’re free. We can be together now.”

He shook his head, exhausted. “I want to-“

“Tell me you will.”

“Evelyn-“

She slapped him again, and he startled back. “Promise me! Cullen, I need you to promise me! I cannot do this alone!”

His mouth worked, and she could see the war raging behind his eyes.

“I can’t. Evelyn, I have committed a thousand sins in my dreams. Do you understand that? A man isn’t meant to live through this. The _mind_   isn’t made to-“

“I had to slit your throat a hundred times, a thousand times, ten thousand times… because Envy saw your face within me and knew he could use it to _break me_. I lived a dozen lifetimes in an instant, and all of them ended _without you_. You can survive the ravages of the mind, you are infinitely stronger than me.”

He shook his head again, but had no argument.

“With passion’d breath does the darkness creep. It is the whisper in the night, the lie upon your sleep.” She shook him, lightly, to make sure he was listening. “These last months, Cullen, it wasn’t the demons lying to you. It was the lyrium the whole time. Every nightmare – it was the lyrium. And the only part of it you have now is the memory. You have to reject the lie. The true demon, the lyrium, is telling you that you have to die. _You don’t_. You have already won. You just have to not believe the lie. Believe _me_.”

He was so close, she could see it. His eyes welled over and he shook his head like it ached him and needed to fall off. She took his hands then, quickly untied them, and pressed them against her chest. She took a deep breath, and recited a part of the chant she barely remembered, attributed to Andraste herself.  
“Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls. From these emerald waters doth life begin anew. Come to me, love, and I shall embrace you. In my arms lies Eternity.”

“Herald,” he whispered, and for an instant she hated herself for the heresy. Then, “Evelyn,” in a tone of wonder.

He slowly laid down, a smile stretching across his face. “In your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame,” he whispered, reaching up to cup her face with his hands. “All-consuming and never satisfied. From the Fade He crafted you, and to the Fade you shall return, each night in dreams, that I may always remember you.”

He quickly slipped into slumber, but this time it felt different to her. Evelyn raced to the door, and pulled Solas into the room.

“It is too early to be sure, Lethallan,” Solas whispered as he examined the sleeping Commander. “But his heart has evened, his blood runs lighter; his temperature is dropping. Watch him while he rests.”

She nodded, and the elf moved to her desk, where his notes on Cullen’s battle with lyrium were laid. He started updating them, a detailed retelling of the steps they had taken to try to save the Commander. Evelyn was vaguely embarrassed that something so personal would go into an academic work, but she found as time went on she cared less and less who knew the depth of her feeling for Cullen.

It was three hours before Cullen stirred again, and Evelyn leapt forward to hear what slipped from his lips.

“…great and small, his heart was strong, and he moved on.”

She allowed herself to collapse onto the bed next to him. “Endurance,” she called lightly to Solas. “He speaks now on Endurance. Maker’s breath, is it still too soon to hope?”

“It is never too soon to hope, Lethallan,” Solas said with a smile. “But do not yet plan the wedding. Let the Commander wake up before we celebrate.”

She nodded, but couldn’t help but feel giddy at the idea that Cullen might yet pull through.

She felt confident enough to draw a full bath over a heating rune, and call to Aieyla to find her something to eat and something to keep on hand in case Cullen awoke hungry. She didn’t bother asking Solas to leave as she stripped in her bathing chamber and sunk into the heat of the bath, scrubbing away days of sand, sweat, and fear. The smell of the Bog Unicorn was the last to leave her, a musty smell of death and horses, with maybe just a touch of frankincense. Steam created a cloud in her bathing chamber and a decided mistiness to her main apartment. Solas, with a rare laugh, beat a hasty retreat in the name of protecting his documents from the Inquisitor’s indoor stormcloud. “Send for me if ought changes, Lethallan.”

“Solas!” She called as he left, and he stuck his head into the cloudy bathroom.

“Thank you,” she said, confident the steam and runically bubbling water would protect them both from embarrassment. Solas’ face was a mask to Evelyn, but finally the smile creeped back into his features.

“You are welcome, Inquisitor.”

She stayed into the bath until she wrinkled and she relaxed enough that she worried she would fall asleep and tilt underwater. Aieyla had brought her a tray and left, stepping briefly into the bathing chamber to welcome Evelyn home.

Evelyn pulled on her plaideweave pajamas, having missed the soft material while she was travelling, and not having had much reason to wear them when she was sneaking into Cullen’s chamber every night she was in Skyhold. Now that he was here, and everyone _knew_   he was here, it would be simple for him to just not leave.

She sat at the foot of her bed, carefully drying her hair, amused by the definite cloud that was forming where the cool air from the open doors to the balcony met the hot moist air from her bathing chamber. The tray Aieyla had brought up smelled decidedly of potato soup and fresh bread, and Evelyn’s stomach rumbled greedily. She stood, intending to put her towel back and have some food, when Cullen’s voice startled her.

“Did He hold me, Love, until you were done with your trials? Was I left unawares of the time that passed, so that I would not suffer in your absense? Or is it possible we failed in our quest, and I followed rather than led? Did you wait for me long?”

Evelyn turned to look at him, slowly dropping her towel. He was sitting up very slightly in bed, a tired smile on his face. It was so good to see him awake, and cognizant, that Evelyn didn’t realize what he was talking about at first.

The room full of candlelight and mist, a warm moist air that likely smelled to Cullen of his memories of her, her soap and shampoo; he woke to find himself half-dressed under the white draped canopy of her bed, and her smiling nearby. When he had fallen ill, she was on the opposite side of Orlais; she could not possibly have returned before he awoke.

“Cullen,” she said lightly as she worked it out. “You didn’t die. As sweet as it is that you think me in my pajamas fresh from a bath is Heaven, we are both of us alive. We have not failed in our quest, and you have leeched the last of the lyrium from your veins. You are freed, my love.”

She stepped carefully to the side of the bed, and placed a hand to his chest. “If you do not believe me, look to the welt I have left on you; I am sure the Maker wouldn’t bring you to His side so damaged.”

Cullen glanced down at the handprint on his chest, and began to laugh weakly. “I thought that a dream.”

Evelyn shook her head solemnly. “Nope. Sorry. I slapped the shit out of you.”

He seemed on the verge of hysterics, and she quickly sat down next to him and gathered him into her arms.

“You’ve done it. Cullen. You’re free. You’re beat to shit and shaky as a leaf but you’re _free_.”

He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her down into the bed beside him.

“Evelyn,” he said when he was better in control of his emotions, “what are you doing here?”

“I stayed, Cullen,” she replied softly. “I got… your letter… and I stayed in the Hissing Wastes. I have never been so afraid in my entire life, but I stayed. I killed the high dragon between us and the Temple of Fairel, and we claimed the Temple so the Venatori couldn’t have it. And only then did I leave."

“How long was I out?”

Evelyn shifted. “Six days? Seven? Did you know the Bog Unicorn can make the run from the Hissing Wastes to Skyhold in just shy of two days?”

Cullen winced. “How long has it been since you slept?”

“I got a few hours on the road. Enough so I wouldn’t come out of the saddle, don’t worry.”

He seemed to think of something else to say, but Evelyn silenced him with a kiss. “Cullen, stop. We have tomorrow, the next day, the rest of our lives to talk about this. For now, you need rest.”

“The rest of our lives…” he echoed weakly. “That might actually mean something, now.”

“Right,” she agreed easily. “I’m still waiting on that reply to letter to Corypheus. He might still fuck off and let it be.”

Cullen shook his head. “No, Evelyn, this is important.”

“It can wait-“

“It _can’t_.” He struggled to sit upright in bed. “Evelyn, I have hated myself for letting us grow so close, called it blasphemy and heresy to love, to _covet_ , the Herald. I knew I was dooming you to a widow’s walk; we justified it with the end of the world and I tried to pretend I was doing the right thing. But now…. now “the rest of our lives” has a chance of being the same length for us both. I need to say it, and I need you to hear me.”

“I’m listening, Cullen,” she said gently, and pushed him back into the pillows. “I’m right here.”

“I love you,” he breathed, and it made a shiver run down her spine. “I can’t promise how long our lives will be, but I want all of our days to be together. I want to love you forever, Evelyn Trevelyan. In whatever way you will let me.”

Their lips met, then, and her arms locked around his neck. His arms pulled her against her chest and strained to hold her there. She pushed her feet against the mattress and they rolled gently to the side, her knees draped over his right hip  as she kissed him for all she was worth.

“Not yet,” she whispered when they come up for air. “We have too much yet to do. We have this _name_   hanging between us, and we have to eliminate _Corypheus_ if ever we want peace. But, the day that happens – ask me again. Ask me again and I will say yes.”

“I will ask better,” he promised weakly, and she found herself torn between laughter and tears.

“Food,” she said she had calmed. “Are you hungry?”

“Not as hungry as I fear I should be,” he answered slowly, frowning as if disappointed in his stomach.

Evelyn swung free of the bed and padded across the floor to the tray Aieyla had brought. She lifted the lid and saw more than enough food for two – a heavy closed turreen of potato soup, half a loaf of hot brown bread, a small crock of butter, a decanter each of water and wine and a small mountain of fruit. She started to carry it to the bed, thought better of it, and hauled it to the chaise by the fire. “Can you get over here on your own?” she asked, pausing before she set the tray down. He frowned again, and then nodded. “I believe so.”

“Good, because you wrecked my sheets. Come here and eat and I’ll get Aieyla to fetch up new bedding.”

Cullen looked a bit guiltily around the room as he slowly got up and crossed the thick rug to drop heavily onto the floor. Evelyn draped a blanket around his shoulders, trusting his trews to keep his lower half warm, and went to the door to find Aieyla. She was in her own rooms a floor below; it was rapidly becoming quite late, but she had promised Evelyn she would be awake for some time yet, so it was with a minimal amount of guilt that Evelyn knocked on their door.

Aieyla agreed to find some help to change out the room, and Evelyn gave her a couple other messages to deliver in the main hall before returning.

She had just gotten back into her room and settled onto the floor next to Cullen, who was slowly but surely devouring the brown bread by tearing off chunks and dipping it into the soup one mouthful at a time, when the door swung open and three of the household staff appeared to strip Evelyn’s bed and change out her bath water.

Aieyla waved for Evelyn to stay by the fire and eat; and it was a good thing she did, because Cullen’s stomach was slowly waking up, and it was ravenous. If she didn’t take her share soon, she might not get any at all.

The bed was remade when Killeen wearily propped open the door and came in, unannounced, without knocking.

“So the rumor’s true, then,” She said lightly. Cullen looked up from his place on the floor and grinned at her. It was the single most boyish smile Evelyn had ever seen on his face, and Killeen instantly lit up in response. 

“The rumors of my demise were, fortunately, completely premature.”

Killeen shook her head. “No, the rumors that you were living up here now. Evelyn told me you were alive.”

Cullen looked back and forth between the Inquisitor and the Lieutenant, surprised and pleased at the familiarity in their address. Killeen saw the look and shrugged. “No titles in the Inquisitor’s quarters. You’re not the only one who’s been up here, you know.”

He managed a scowl at Evelyn for all of three seconds before breaking into another happy smile. Evelyn felt her jaw start to hurt from smiling back at him. “Yes,” she answered for him, as he continued his crusade against the potato soup. “We’ll have his things brought up in the morning, no reason to wake anyone else in the middle of the night.”

Killeen glanced at the darkness beyond the balcony window. “I’ve already got one of the night patrols headed up at watch change. Should see them in the next half-hour. Commander doesn’t have much, and we’re leaving the office untouched. None of them should have to make more than one trip.”

Killeen ruffled Cullen’s hair and turned to leave. “Good to see you awake, Rutherford. You’ve got maybe two days before you need to be back to work, or there might be a revolt. Led by me.”

She wandered out the door, and true to her word, a series of half-a-dozen soldiers arrived as Aieyla was leaving, bringing in stacks of boxes and lining the railing of the stairs with them. Evelyn gave Cullen an amused look as they saluted their Commander and made their way out of the room. “You were already packed.”

“Packed the day you left,” he agreed around another mouthful of bread. Evelyn stole the last of it, sliding the fruit towards him before he could consume her share of the soup. They made quick work of the rest of the food, speaking little but laughing much. Evelyn convinced Cullen to take a bath, arguing that he need not wash with cold water in the soldier’s baths anymore.

“It’s been over a decade since I had hot water for a bath, Evelyn. You’ll ruin me.” He eyed the tub suspiciously.

“Oh, you’re right about that,” she said, and slid out of her pajamas. “There’s room for two if you change your mind.”

They were both far too tired to do much more than tease, but Cullen sank gratefully into the steaming water and pulled the naked Inquisitor into his lap. “Are you sure I didn’t die?” he teased, his mouth nibbling her ear.

“Well, I am sure _I_   didn’t. So if I’m still here, you must have survived, too.”

She slid out of his lap, gliding around behind him in the oversized cask to work her fingers through his hair. He dipped a bit under the water and came up coughing.

“Survived Kinloch. Survived the Blight. Survived Kirkwall. Survived Haven. Survived Adamant. Survived lyrium withdrawals.” He rattled off his personal close shaves in a list that sounds a lot like Evelyn’s. “ Drowned in a bathtub with a beautiful woman. What a way to go.”

Evelyn grabbed a small amount of her shampoo and rubbed it into his hair, washing out the week of sweat and sickness that slicked his curls to his scalp. She rubbed at his shoulders until her fingers ached. He twisted them both in tub so she was pressed against his chest and he was leaning his back against the walls of the cask.

“Ruined,” he sighed,

“Good thing you live here now,” she murmured in return.

She was wrinkled again before she managed to pull herself out of the tub; once she left Cullen quickly followed suit, not eager to be out of contact with her.

He tugged her towel out of her hand and led her to bed half-dried, crawling under the covers with her. “You’ll ruin the fresh sheets,” she complained half-heartedly.

“We’re clean, they’ll be fine,” he replied, his voice heavy with sleep. “I promised you we would find ourselves naked in your bed, and I intend to live up to my promises.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Evelyn sat up with a start, before fighting out of the covers and running to the door. She cracked the door open, checking down the stairwell; no one to be seen. She latched the door shut and then threw the heavy bolt. Cullen heard the door lock and started laughing above her. She climbed back into the room and he held open the blankets for her.

“Thank you,” he whispered against her damp hair as they pressed down into the bedding together.

“Mmhmm,” she answered. “For what?”

“Giving me a reason to live,” he answered. Evelyn turned her face to press a kiss into his neck, and they both fell blissfully into the best sleep of their lives.


	22. Clearing the Air

The red lyrium streaming out of Emprise du Lyon had to be stopped before the Inquisition could reasonably consider open battle with Corypheus again. The dragons circling the mountains made it nearly impossible to keep Bull from joining her, but she got him to agree to wait until she cleared a path to their lairs. It was a rough two weeks – cold where the Wastes had been boiling hot – but once Bull joined them it was another 10 days of stalking and slaying dragons.

“Where the fuck are all these high dragons coming from?” Evelyn asked, not for the first time. Or fourth.

“Don’t care. Keep ‘em coming.” Bull answered cheerfully. “Thanks again for bringing me in, Boss.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “If we didn’t need the scales and bones for armaments I wouldn’t bother.”

Dorian, who seemed to be enjoying his time in the field with Bull as much as Evelyn imagined he might, scoffed at her. “For shame, my Lady. We all know you enjoy a good fight as much as any of the rest of us.”

“Lets just get a team out here to pick this beast up and go home.”

Home had been the only thing on her mind ever since she left. _Get this done and go home_   was suddenly her mantra, and while they might have teased her for it, everyone understood why.

For the first time in her life, Evelyn Trevelyan actually had something to go home to.

It was a three-day ride back to Skyhold, and she was in high spirits the entire trip. She and Bull tossed a wine skin back and forth companionably in the afternoons. Evelyn and Varric exchanged stories around the fire at night, allowing their voices and laughter to provide a little privacy for Bull and Dorian. They clattered across the causeway into Skyhold a few hours after noon,  welcomed by a cheer – the first of the dragons had been brought to Skyhold already, with news of more on the way.

Evelyn was surprised to see Cullen waiting for her in the courtyard as she rode up. The Commander took the bridle of her horse – her charger, not the heroic ‘unicorn’ – and handed her down. Before she was even able to let go of the saddle, she was in Cullen’s arms, receiving a warm welcome that was completely out of the ordinary. Even more surprising, Evelyn realized she absolutely didn’t care. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly, breaking away with a laugh when she realized they were being cheered by the surrounding soldiers. Incredibly, Cullen didn’t blush.

He led her out of the crowd by her hand and then stopped to offer her his arm, and he escorted her into the main hall like she was a Lady at a ball and not a filthy, travel-worn waif in brown leathers. Of course she was needed in the war room, and of course there were a million things to do… but somehow she was laughing and shouting hellos to everyone she passed that welcomed her home.

They had prepped the army while she was away, and with the red lyrium supply lines cut, their next move was to march on the Arbor Wilds. Evelyn expected to only have a day or two at home before going in search of the Eluvian, and the war council that evening did nothing to convince her otherwise. Cullen had a thousand things to do, but since relocating to her quarters, she was confident she would have some small amount of time with him before she left ahead of the army.

He managed to retire early that night; it was possible their reunion in the courtyard had bought him some sympathy from his Lieutenants. The popular story in Skyhold was the Commander’s sudden recovery was a miracle performed by the Herald; the responsibility for his surviving lyrium withdrawals was split between his strength and her grace. Evelyn didn’t like the continued _Herald_   nonsense, not after the truth was revealed at Adamant, but if it bought her some extra free time with Cullen she would keep her complaints to a minimum.

She was sitting at her desk when he came into her room – _their rooms_ – that evening. “Oh no,” he said by way of greeting as she glanced up. “If I’m not working, you’re not working.”

She abandoned the letter she was writing and danced across the room to him. “How are we spending the evening, my love?” he asked, laughing, as she spun into his arms.

She thought for a moment and sobered. “Can I be morbid?”

He blinked, leaning back with a confused frown. “I suppose?”

“My idea for the Wilds is we’ll go in, smash some glass, and get out. Corypheus will lose a lot of men and have to regroup. But this is just another delay. This will keep one more thing from him, but who knows how many times we’re going to delay him before we actually are able to defeat him?”

“That feels like a rhetorical question.”

She nodded. “It is. My point is this: someday, maybe even someday soon, we’ll be at the breaking point and we’ll say goodbye to each other, even if only just in case. Can we sit down and make sure everything is said _now_ , before we’re to the point that it might be our last chance?”

Cullen considered the idea for long enough Evelyn thought he would refuse. “I’ll admit I had simpler plans,” he said finally, tightening his hand in her hair with a wink, “but I can see the wisdom in your suggestion.”

“I almost wish you’d argued with me,” she said, playfully swinging her hip into his as she walked to the sideboard to retrieve a decanter of wine and two goblets. “I suspect we’re going to want this,” she said, and gestured to their favored spot by the fire. Cullen stripped to his shirt and trews and fetched a small stack of blankets from the linen chest. As Evelyn sat, he drew her legs into his lap and worked at the laces of her boots.

“Something easy to start, right? Moment you knew you loved me.”

Cullen laughed, keeping his eyes on the laces he was loosening. “The moment I _knew_? That was the moment you walked out of the Chantry at Haven, the night it was lost. I saw Cassandra step to your side without a word from either of you and I was _furious_   with her until I realized I was envious. She had the right to live or die by your side, and I hadn’t even the option to consider it.”

He could feel his eyes on him, and he pulled her right boot off and started on the laces on the left before he continued. “But that was only when I knew. I think I started to love you the day we were properly introduced in the war room. You could not have possibly known the arguments we four had before you got there, much less what everyone’s opinion was. When you so eloquently made all the same arguments I had made, I knew we were of a like mind. It was …refreshing isn’t the word, but it’s the best I have. The actual _moment_ , though, was when Cassandra called you the Herald. I had thought we were spreading heresy, and was preparing to confront them on it. But then you shot her this _look_ of such _disgust_   when she used it that I wanted them to keep saying it just so I could see that expression again. It was priceless.”

Evelyn rewarded his admission with a fit of giggles. “I remember that! Oh, I wish I had looked up at you then.”

“Your turn, my Lady,” he said as he dropped the other boot to the floor. Her feet freed, he turned a bit more toward her and started rubbing her feet.

She over-dramatically collapsed on the floor with a groan until Cullen’s hands stilled. “Talk or I stop,” he said with a grin.

“Finally a threat from you I can believe,” she said, sitting up. “I think I was first aware of it the night at Flissa’s, when I announced to everyone that I owed you a drink, and you _went for it_. I was so sure you would argue with me, or try to get out of it. But you didn’t. And then, I asked you to stay, and you got this _look_ on your face and you rubbed your neck like you do when you’re embarrassed. And you refused, saying I couldn’t discharge my debt in one sitting. I couldn’t help but think you wanted to have a drink with me later, and the more I thought about it the more trouble I knew I was in.”

“But when did I _know?_ “ she shook her head with a smile and took another sip of wine. “I want to say it was another night at Flissa’s, after I decided to approach the Templars. I want to say it was the day after I came home with the Templars and you cornered me to talk about what had happened with Envy. But if I am honest, it was when you found me in the snow and dragged me into camp and kept me from killing half my allies. I remember the steel of your breastplate against my back, and it was _warm_. And for the first time in a week I wasn’t scared out of my mind. I would have done anything for you, then.”

They smiled at each other for amoment, enjoying the subject before inevitably darker secrets came to light.

“Speaking of Envy,” Cullen said softly.

Evelyn managed a smile. “I did bring it up. And you know I skipped a lot of things, the day I tried to tell you about it.”

Cullen only nodded.

“He had to get to know me, to replace me. He had to know who was important to me and who was not. He had to be able to pass as me, if a _me_ with seemingly different motives, for long enough to diffuse suspicion. So he dug through my brain, and every little kernel of emotion he found, he exposed to me in a seriously fucked up way. My father, my dead siblings, my live siblings. Every one of the people I had met and formed any kind of relationship with in the Inquisition, from Flissa to Leliana and everyone in between.”

She took a deep breath and plunged onto a different path than he thought she would take. “I knew Cadash was dead. I hadn’t found his body, but we never found most of the bodies. I know where he was in the Temple, I know he could not possibly have survived, just as I know there was no hope for any of my siblings who were there. But I hadn’t tried to deal with it… I had put my head down and ran at the Breach and decided I could take the lid off the jar when I had some time and distance. And Envy didn’t just take the lid off, he shattered the damn thing. I know it was just an image he created, drawing from the bodies I saw there, but he made me _live_   Cadash’s death, just to see how I would react. It was impossible to stand there and watch and feel nothing, so I went the opposite route. I cut his head off and walked away.”

She put a hand to her stomach to steady herself, shook her head slightly, and carried on. “But as close as we were, it wasn’t ever about love with Cadash. We knew it was temporary – until one of us got killed or sent away or my father finally did something about me.  When he pulled _you_   out of my memory, when he was able to compare how I saw you with Lucius’ knowledge and memories of you…. with you he was relentless. I was so shocked to see you there that I didn’t react strongly enough at first, I reached out before I ran away. And Envy made you follow me. I faced you countless times, and the only way to escape was to kill you, over and over and over again. I slit your throat and ran until finally I found my way out. There was… no way I could tell you that, the day you asked.”

“No, I can see why not,” Cullen agreed softly.

They travelled down progressively darker roads, then. Cullen spoke of Meghan Amell’s death in the fall of the Ferelden circle and his encounter with Moira Cousland when she, Leliana, Alistair, and Wynne liberated First Enchanter Irving in spite of Cullen’s pleas to the contrary. That got them talking about Moira and Leliana, and Evelyn confessed to Cullen that Leliana had gone in search of Moira – and found her – the morning after their violent first duel in Haven.

“That morning that I was a walking bruise, and Leliana was gone? She had word that Moira was seen on the west shore of Lake Calenhad, and knew where she was. I guess they were never able to travel that western shore without being ambushed, and had eventually come across a bypass that they started taking whenever they rode that way. There was a secret ravine that they loved to camp in, and if Moira was travelling she would stop there.”

Evelyn shrugged. “She was there. She had stopped there for a bit to go through the evidence she had acquired a short while before, not trusting anywhere else to camp for more than a night. And then she realized how close she was to Haven and just couldn’t move on. She told Leliana then about the Calling, about how she and Alistair needed to clear themselves of the taint if they wanted to avoid a war of succession because it was almost unheard of for Wardens to conceive, and a pair of Wardens had never borne children together. Fiona, the High Enchanter, had apparently done it, but she had refused to respond to any of Alistair’s letters, and then she was claimed by the Venatori. And then I… killed her in Haven. Did I tell you that?”

Cullen shook his head, _no_.

Evelyn nodded. “She stormed the trebuchet when I was trying to get it aimed. If I had known she might hold the key to the calling, I would have worked to save her.”

He told her, easier than he had spoken of Kinloch, of what he had seen in Kirkwall. And then they took turns speaking of nightmares, using their voices to turn the fears into memories. But talk of nightmares turned to talk of dreams, and soon they were laughing again.

“I meant it, you know,” he said as the hour drew late and Evelyn emptied the last of the wine from the second decanter into his glass. “When I told you I wanted to spend my life with you.”

“I know,” she said softly. “And I meant it when I told you to ask me again when we didn’t have an immortal Tevinter Magister looming between us everytime we try to talk about our future.”

“Can we pretend?” He asked, pulling her across the floor and into his lap, his right arm under her knees and his left around her shoulders.

“Pretend?” she asked, settling her head into his shoulder. “It’s not pretend. I really will say yes.”

“No,” he laughed. “I mean, pretend the future is something we can talk about.”

She frowned at him, but there it was amused confusion more than anything else. “I don’t think I understand.”

“If we were at a place where the future was certain,” he said, picking his words carefully, “would you ever want to be married? Would you ever want children? Would you want to leave Skyhold? Where would you go?”

Evelyn melted against his chest. “I have never actually thought about it, in the sense of what I _wanted_. I figured eventually my father would reach his breaking point, and I would be sold off in an arranged marriage and expected to beget heirs. But then the circles dissolved and the war broke out and I was on a boat to Ferelden and it never crossed my mind again.”

“Never?” he teased gently. “Not once?”

She laughed, watching the way the anchor illuminated his white shirt as she rubbed her hand across his chest. “Did I imagine it? Of course. Have I let myself really think about it? No. I think it would be too painful, if… if we didn’t win,” she finished lamely. Cullen held her tighter for a moment, and then leveraged them off the floor and carried her to their bed. “I do know that I would stay in Skyhold as long as anyone would let me,” she said as they crossed the room. “Because this is the first place that has ever really felt like home, the first place I was ever excited to return to.”

Cullen leaned over so he could pull the blankets down without releasing her, and then turned around and sat on the exposed sheet.  Evelyn shifted in his grasp so she was sitting up facing him, her legs draped around his waist. “Any time I think of getting married, I am immediately distracted by the look I would get from Josephine when I told her, and then the planning would be effectively stripped from my hands. I’m not sure whether that’s brilliant or a complete tragedy.”

Cullen laughed, running his hands up her back and over her shoulders to glide down to the buttons of her shirt.

“Whether or not I have children…” she said, her eyes focusing somewhere over Cullen’s shoulder. “I think that would be determined by the world that rises from Corypheus’ ashes. I would need the world to be the kind of place that I wanted to leave to my children, before I brought children into it.”

His hands finished the buttons of her jacket and dragged it off her shoulders and down her arms. He pulled his own shirt over his head and then wrapped his arms around her, pressing her skin against his.

“I think any child of yours would _make_ the world a place worth living in,” he breathed into her ear. “And I hope they have your hair.”

She couldn’t think about it, not yet. It would be something to regret, something that might keep her from throwing herself at Corypheus, something that might keep her from paying any price to save them. Varric had warned her countless times that their story was writing itself into a tragedy, and it was hard to argue against the heroine dying at the end. She wanted to live, of course she wanted to find herself on the other side of this war, watching the sun rise on a new day with Cullen in her arms. But she had to be willing to sell herself to buy that day; it was the only thing that saved them in Haven.

So she smiled at him, shook her head, and did her damnedest to forget. Her fingers were in the laces of his trews and he drew them backwards into their bed, his hands in her hair and his tongue in her mouth. She pulled their pants off with hands and feet and more than one laugh, and started to settle her hips on his.

“In a hurry, are we?” he asked against her mouth, trying to draw away from her.

“I’ve been gone for weeks, Cullen. I’ve been ready for this for _days_. I don’t need any warm-up.”

“And if I do?” he tried to ask, but laughed as she growled and pounced on him, pinning him down. With her hands on his shoulders and her feet hooked over his thighs,  She dragged her hips up his legs until he slid into place between her thighs, and then slid backwards to guide him inside her.  She was rewarded with his head tipping back and his eyes rolling up a bit in his head as his eyelids fluttered and he made a thoroughly satisfied sound in the back of his throat.

“I think you’re fine as you are,” she said as she dipped her mouth to his throat and nibbled on the apple of his throat. He laughed and tossed his head, trying to avoid the assault, and rolled them to her back in retaliation. She rolled her hips against him, and he growled a warning.

“We have had made love in this bed a grand total of _once_ , “ she complained, grinding up against him. “and you made me go easy on you, since you’d been in a fevered coma for a week before. If you don’t let me fuck you I might lose my mind.”

The profanity on her lips, in that smoky voice, had the effect on him she had been aiming for, and he shuddered deliciously.

He took her wrists and gently pinned them over her head, rocking his hips from side to side to settle himself deeper inside her. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, in between kisses to her throat. “You come for me once _my_ way, and you can have the rest of the night however you want it.”

Like all the compromises they made, it worked perfectly.

 

*

 

In contrast,  the Battle for the Arbor Wilds was a complete shit show.


	23. The Gauntlet

The Battle for the Arbor Wilds was a complete shit show.

There was a moment, in the river leading to the temple, that she and her team had fought beside him through a clutch of lyrium abominations. He hadn’t seen her fight since Adamant, and the months of near constant combat had hardened her into the liquid death he had long imagined her capable of. Cassandra now could walk into a fight and draw every eye, and while Varric and the mages controlled the pace of the battle Evelyn whirled through the field and destroyed everything she came in contact with. Cullen had known Morrigan had fought the Fifth Blight alongside Leliana and the now-regents of Ferelden, but seeing the scholar twirling her staff next to Solas was enough to raise the hairs on Cullen’s arms, lyrium or no.

Dorian was furious to not be brought along, but Evelyn had just rolled her eyes at him. “Elven temple, remember? I’d be an idiot not to take Solas.”

Solas had taken the news as graciously as anyone could ask for, understanding that Evelyn wanted him for his knowledge rather than his race, much as she often wanted Dorian for sheer firepower rather than subtlety. Or wit. Or ability to heal. Dorian fled before she could continue, her point made.

She didn’t speak to Cullen as the fight ended, and he didn’t approach her. With a rather roguish wink from her, Evelyn led her team away from him, upstream, trusting Cullen to guard her back. It was such a perfect allegory for their relationship, he almost didn’t mind the brevity of the encounter. Almost.

The battle was hard-fought but slowly won, and then Corypheus was fleeing on dragon-back and his forces crumbled. Cullen took the fight all the way to the Temple of Mythal itself, and led a unit of his most veteran soldiers, the ones who had survived the Conclave, with him inside.

The Temple was empty. The Eluvian, destroyed. And no sign of Evelyn or her team.

“But no bodies,” Leliana said suddenly from his shoulder, having come at once when she heard the Temple was won. “I will not believe anything has befallen our Inquisitor until I actually _see_   a body. We cannot even begin to guess where she might have gone, not with her history.”

Cullen had to admit her logic. They announced to the army that the Inquisitor and her team had disappeared – again – and Lieutenant Killeen immediately called out that she was a keeping a pool for when the Herald would show up and how she made her escape. There was a rush for the best numbers, and several different pools had to be started, there were so many takers. Cullen seemed to be the only one with any reservations about Evelyn’s continued well-being.

“This is why she won’t even consider the future,” he told Leliana the next day, as they rode together near the front of the marching army, headed home to Skyhold.  “I could have fallen yesterday, and then she would be left mourning a future that could never be. I need to put it out of my head, but I cannot.”

Leliana gave him a sad smile. “Are you admitting you mourn a future that existed only in your dreams?”

Cullen shook his head. “I do not yet mourn. I merely worry.”

“I remember a smitten Commander who wailed at me for fully half an hour when it was discovered the Inquisitor had gone off dragon hunting. And yet she hunted and killed three in Emprise du Lyon with scarcely a word from you. She has escaped from worse before, and we know of multiple possibilites for what became of her. She could be with the mysterious elves we found fighting the Venatori, or they could have taken the Eluvian and destroyed it behind them. It is also entirely possible she once again disappeared into the Fade.” Leliana laughed, “Or maybe Morrigan’s mother swooped down and carried them away, like she did Hawke’s family.”

Cullen shook his head. “Do you believe that story?”

Leliana sobered. “I met Morrigan’s mother. It is not a matter of belief. The woman can take the form of a dragon.”

Cullen canted an eyebrow at her. “So I owe Varric’s book another read thru, with even more liberal eyes?”

Leliana laughed, and they continued on personably for some time before he was called away. Otherwise he might have been closer when Leliana suddenly stood in her saddle and threw out an arm to catch the ugly old bird who answered to the dubious name of Baron Plucky.

It was Killeen who brought the message to him, her wide grin raising his spirits even before he saw the sooty imprint of Evelyn’s left-hand dagger on the wax seal of the tube she handed him.

 

_C,_

_I hope you did not worry long before receiving this; it is my hope Plucky can find you on the road without knowing precisely where you are. We looked into the mirror and then went straight home; I have been lounging since before you even knew I was gone. Fear not, and hurry home._

_-E_

 

“Who had money on the Eluvian, and that she was home before we knew she was missing?”

Killeen grinned at  him again. “I will go check, ser.”

There were four people with that combination, and Killeen seeking them out to give them their winnings doubled as the best way to tell the army their Herald was safe. The marching speed actually increased with the news, as a battle was more decidedly won now that the Inquisitor had beaten them home.

When they rode into view of Skyhold, they were met in the wide plain where the army encamped by the Inquisitor herself, perched on a massive pyramid of barrels. “Ferelden’s best for the victors!” she cried as the the army drew near, and she was met with wild applause. Cullen rode up to her as she nimbly leapt down and swept her onto his horse in front of him. The cheer for the Commander and his Lady was thunderous, and he felt only joy as he rode into Skyhold with her back against his armor and her hands on his knees.

“The spoils of war, am I?” she asked with a grin. But before he could answer, her voice changed tone and was pitched for his ears alone. “I am so sorry, I sent the message as soon as possible. You must have been mad with worry. I would have been, were our roles reversed.”

“I won’t lie,” he replied easily. “I went through that entire cursed complex four times before I was sure I wasn’t missing some corner you could have been hidden in, and was assured there were no hidden passages that may have closed behind you. The glass shards were new, so that seemed the most likely explanation. I must admit I was the only person not completely convinced you were safe; you had everyone else’s complete confidence.”

“And I lack yours, sirrah?” she asked with a laugh.

“Not remotely,” he answered gravely. “I merely do not trust my own luck, coin from my brother notwithstanding.”

“Ah, then I am glad I made you keep it.” She tipped her head back onto his shoulder and was silent as they clattered across the causeway and into the courtyard. She slid down from the horse before him, but as soon as his feet hit the ground he gathered her into his arms and kissed her soundly, ignoring the hooting of his Lieutenants and the members of the inner circle who were dismounting all around them. He felt a hand on his arm and he was being pulled back; Leliana broke up their embrace to claim her own from the Inquisitor.

“Ev, you utter slattern, you about stopped my heart,” he heard the Nightingale whisper to her friend. If Cullen’s affection was expected, Leliana’s was unheard of. Evelyn’s smile was like the sunrise as she apologized to the Spymaster. “I’ll leave a note next time, Lana.”

“And Plucky!” Leliana said as she pulled away. “I can’t believe he listened to you!”

Evelyn shrugged. “Bribery works,” she said simply, and Cullen and Leliana both laughed.

The three of them entered the keep together and went straight to the war room, where Josephine, Cassandra, and Morrigan were waiting. Cassandra rarely was involved at the war room councils, but she always came to listen, staying near the wall where she could see the table but not interfere.

Once settled, Evelyn told them all the whole story: how the Temple had an Eluvian, but what Corypheus was really after was the Well of Sorrows, guarded all this time by a clan of ancient elves. Morrigan and Solas helping Evelyn complete the rituals to unlock the route to the well and gaining the assistance of the elvhen guardians led into Morrigan drinking from the Well and then their last minute escape through the Eluvian as the resurrected Corypheus finally broke into the Temple, the mirror shattering behind them.

“So he got neither,” Josephine said when the tale was finished. “The Eluvian was destroyed, and subsequently recovered by Leliana’s agents to be brought here in secret.” She paused so Morrigan and Leliana could exchange pleasantries over this bit of foresight. “And he did not get the Well because Morrigan… drank it?”

“Absorbed it, really,” Evelyn said gently. “You had to have been there.”

The suggestion was made – and rejected – that Corypheus would need to regroup and rebuild. “The Well is here,” Evelyn said darkly. “As is a working Eluvian. Coming here is his only option. Even if he can’t _use_   the Well anymore, he might attempt to destroy it so we can’t, either.”

“It is far too late for that,” Morrigan said with a raised brow. And she detailed her plan to kill the false-archdemon and render Corypheus temporarily unable to take the body of any other darkspawn, or Warden. Cullen set about preparing Skyhold for an attack while Leliana and Josephine dug into the mountain of messages that had arrived in the Inquisition’s absence. Evelyn escaped to the undercroft to continue work on repairs and improvements to her armor while Dagna tried again to make a dagger grip that wouldn’t be charred into dust by the anchor in her left hand.

 

*

 

They had one night before the Breach exploded into life again over the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It was a thrown gauntlet; Evelyn didn’t have to call the war council, as they grimly made their way there at the same time as her.

“We can’t get the army over the mountains, not with any speed, “ Cullen was saying, angry.

“Good,” Evelyn said, pulling him up short. “Don’t let us be drawn away from Skyhold. Protect this space, in case the Breach is a feint.”

Leliana nodded. “I will dispatch scouts, but I believe we can safely assume that it is Corypheus and his dragon alone who will be found there. There has been no indication of troop movements, and definitely no time for him to pull together another force to replace the one he lost in the Arbor Wilds.”

Josephine’s information echoed this.

“Alright,” Evelyn said, leaning forward with to rest her fists on the war table. “This is it, then. I will take Cassandra, Solas, and Varric with me. A fast strike, same team that met him in Haven so there will be no surprises. Morrigan will help us with the dragon. We’ve got one shot at this. We’ll ride the harts, they can get over the mountains faster than anything, we can be there and back in less than a day if the weather holds. We’ll leave before first light.”

She looked from face to face around the table, receiving a nod from each of the advisors before they broke apart. Evelyn went to tell Solas and Varric personally about the plan, and was surprised when they each eagerly agreed to join her. Varric wanted to “make sure that bastard _stays dead_   this time,” while Solas was adamant about retrieving the stolen elven orb. They were to meet two hours before dawn at the stables; she encouraged them to plan for all eventualities, with a grim twist to her mouth. Varric sat down to write just-in-case letters that he left in his lockbox in his quarters, confident Leliana would break in if he didn’t return. Evelyn gathered up her gear from the undercroft – telling Dagna it didn’t matter if the grip charred, she should only need it for one more day, and getting a sobbing hug from the little arcanist in response.

She was packed and pacing by dinner time, the window of her tower not letting her directly see the Breach, but the pulse in the anchor telling her without a doubt that it was growing steadily, if slower than before.

She went to fetch Cullen from his office, knowing he would work straight through dinner if not physically dragged away. She expected more activity from his doors, surprised that it was not a human beehive with workers streaming in and out. When she entered, the room was mostly dark; Killeen was sitting at Cullen’s desk, balancing a sheet of figures.

“Lieutenant?” Evelyn asked, astonished.

“The man is a machine,” Killeen answered, not looking up. “Got more done in an hour than he used to finish in an afternoon, and that’s saying something. Kicking lyrium might go down as the greatest accomplish of the age, and to say that to _you_ is really something.”

“So if he’s not here, where the fuck is he?”

Killeen’s head snapped up, but she grinned at the smiling Inquisitor. “Wouldn’t tell me. Said you would know the spot, if you came looking. I’m pretty sure he meant the shrine to Andraste; you both spent a lot of time there back in the day.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes but thanked the Lieutenant and turned to leave.

“Herald?” Killeen called as Evelyn’s hand touched the door. She glanced back. “Good luck. Evelyn. We’re all praying for you.”

With a repeated thanks, Evelyn headed to the Chantry.

Cullen was kneeling at Andraste’s feet, working his way through the Canticle of Trials as he had so long ago taught Evelyn to do when the nightmares came.

“A prayer for you?” she asked, not afraid to interrupt him. Not in this.

“A prayer for all those we have lost, might still lose. And those I am afraid to lose.”

If there was one thing Evelyn understood, it was fear.

“Afraid?” she asked, trying to encourage him to open up to her.

Cullen ranted for a minute about the uncertainties of Corypheus and his apparent immortality, but Evelyn waited for the crux of the matter. It didn’t take long. “When the time comes, you will be thrown into his path again. Andraste preserve me, I must _send you to him_. “

They had spoken of it too many times; Evelyn couldn’t avoid it now. “What if I don’t… Cullen, if I can’t…”

“No,” he breathed, quickly raching out to press a thumb to her lips, stop her from saying it. “Maker’s breath, no. Whatever happens, you _will_ come back. Just as you have every time before.”

She tried to laugh it off, this sudden ache in her chest, and he drew her into his arms. “Is that an order, Commander?”

He chuckled, once, but there was no humor in it. “No. But as your adviser I strongly recommend it.”

She buried her face in his neck. “I will do my best.”

“Good,” he whispered in response. “I cannot lose you, Evelyn. I just can’t.”


	24. Eternity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I posted the entire thing in a day. Enjoy!

It was a hard ride the next morning, set early enough to avoid the melodrama that comes from leaving on what might be a suicide mission. Cullen did not come down to the courtyard to say goodbye, but Evelyn could see him high above, watching her ride out from the balcony of their room. It was an hour before they were completely out of sight of the tower, and if he climbed onto the roof he could have watched their progress the entire time. She was positive he had.

The fight was short and dirty; Morrigan barely survived with her scalp intact after a particularly nasty fall as she battled the false archdemon in her own dragon form. Once Evelyn drove her daggers into the beast’s jugular and it fell thrashing, she went looking for Corypheus. Cassandra paused just long enough to saw the beast’s head off, not wanting to take any chances.

They brought Corypheus down within minutes of the dragon’s death, and Evelyn used the orb to utterly destroy the Magister spawn. With the orb in her hand, the Breach and the Anchor were both reabsorbed into the artifact, but the force shattered it. That seemed to affect Solas more than Evelyn could have imagined, and the elf utterly vanished as Cassandra found Morrigan’s still form and called for help.

They spooned a potion into her and got her walking again, if dazed. It was a longer ride back that it was out, and the sun was sinking in the sky when they approached the gates.

The cheering started as soon as hooves hit the causeway. Cullen was running down the steps from the main hall, propriety be damned, and Evelyn launched off the red hart into his arms. He crushed her to his chest to the thunderous applause of the keep. She pulled back and threw her left hand in the air; the anchor was gone. The rifts were gone. The Breach was gone. The pain was _gone_ , that was perhaps the most surprising, as she had lived with it for so long she seldom noticed it anymore.

The party started then, and promised to keep going for _days_. Evelyn made her way through a feast that had gone into production mere minutes after the Breach disappeared from the sky, and Leliana’s scouts who had been watching from a nearby mountain retreat had sent the bird that decried their success. She stopped to talk to everyone, even Blackwall, who she had largely avoided since his story had come out. She was exhausted, though, and headed to her tower as soon as dinner was served, knowing Aieyla would happily sneak her a plate, if she hadn’t already.

“So you managed to slip away,” Cullen’s voice stopped her as she reached the door at the base of the stairs. “I seem to find myself desiring more of your company, if it’s available.”

She laughed, asking, “Something on your mind?”

“Everything,” he answered with an intensity he rarely directed at her. She motioned for him to follow her, and they left the hall unnoticed.

“Aieyla already put dinner for us both upstairs,” he said as the door shut behind them, and she laughed as she started up the stairs. Halfway up, when she paused to look adoringly at the door to their room, Cullen swept her up and continued the climb.

“I always stop there,” she said with a laugh.

“Not today, you don’t,” he said, and hauled her the rest of the way up the stairs.

“I remember trying to imagine what this was like, when I woke up and learned you had _carted me around_   again.”

He laughed, then, and Evelyn was relieved to see him in good humor. His solemnity was strange, given the festivities.

When they reached the door, he gently set her down, and pushed the door open with his back, leading her in with both hands. The room was lit by a fire in the hearth and the last beams of sunset that surely could only be seen from here; the rest of Skyhold far below was long since in the shadow of the mountains.

Evelyn saw the bed was turned down, and her desk had been swept clean and set as a table for two, complete with candles and wine. She laughed and danced over to their private dinner, thrilled to have a little bit of down time after the events of the day.

They ate mostly in silence, watching the sun set and the fire sink into embers. Cullen finished his meal before she was done savoring the wine, and he went to build the fire back up while she leaned back in her chair and simply enjoyed watching him work. She noticed, absently, that his black leather journal was sitting on the couch. Maybe they finally had time for him to read it to her.

“You know what’s amazing,” she said, half to herself. “There is no _now what_. I mean, I’m sure I can think of something. But the war is over. Corypheus is gone. Mother Giselle should be Divine, I think, but at this point I really don’t care. That is somebody else’s problem. We’ll have to figure out what to do with the Inquisition, but that is not a job for today. I literally have nothing pressing to attend to. When Moira and Alistair ended the fifth blight, they immediately had a country to run. I should write him and brag a little.”

“Nothing at all on your plate?” Cullen said with a smile, standing up from the fire and moving to stand behind her, hands on her shoulders as she leaned back into the safety of his breastplate against her back.

“Mmmm,” she said by way of reply.

“We talked about this, you know,” he said, moving around to stand in front her and then dropping to a crouch so he could look her in the eyes. “Several times, about what it would be like when we didn’t have the name of a should-be-long-dead Tevinter Magister hanging in the air between us.

Evelyn realized then, far too late, the reason for his odd intensity. She thought she should have been afraid, and was astonished to find she wasn’t. She smiled at him, then, and leaned forward to kiss him lightly. “I seem to recall you making a promise about coming up with a better way to ask me something, as well.”

The light in his eyes was brilliant. He was worried she had reconsidered, she could tell; her total lack of fear must have been as astonishing to him as it was to her. He raised his hands to her cheeks and ran his thumbs over her eyelids, whispering as he sank to one knee. “I always meant to ask you, if your eyes were this remarkable shade of green before the anchor.” She laughed as she nodded, surprised by the question. “Always have been.”

He nodded, content. Then he whispered again, “Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls. From these emerald waters doth life begin anew. Come to me, love, and I shall embrace you. In my arms lies Eternity.”

Her heart pounded in her throat as she remembered using those same words to convince him to live, to stay in her life. She felt her eyes well up with tears as he rolled a small golden ring between his fingers.

“Evelyn Trevelyan,” he said, and she choked out a laugh. “My Lady Inquisitor, blessed Herald of Andraste- ow.” She swatted him as he mocked her with the title they both knew was false., and they laughed for a moment before he could continue.

“You are my reason for living. Yours were the hands that raised up nations, and yet you always had strength left to shoulder my battles, and the wars of countless others whose lives you have touched. You are the single most awe-inspiring woman on the planet, and all I can hope to offer you is my life and eternal love.  Will you, please, consent to be my wife?”

She looked at him silently for a long moment, both knowing full well what her answer would be. _Ask me then, and I will say yes_ , she had told him, somehow only weeks before, when it felt like a lifetime.

“Yes,” she said finally, “that was a _much_   better way to ask.”

He laughed and scooped her off the chair into his lap as they collapsed on the floor.

“Say you will,” he breathed against her lips.

“Of course I will,” she answered, still laughing. “Cullen, yes. Please. I will marry you.”

They lay tangled on the floor for far too long, laughing quietly whenever their lips weren’t joined. The shadows lengthened into night, and the sounds of jubilation drifted in the balcony from far below. "And I am at last free from the machinations of Orlesian nobility," he said with a happy sigh.

“Lets go tell them,” she said, pulling him up. “Before someone sees the ring and a rumor ruins the surprise.”

It was set with emeralds, in a way she couldn’t see when he had rolled it in his hands, and the inside of the band was runed with what looked like defensive writing. “Dagna made it,” he said with a shrug as he led her down the stairs. “I just told her what it was for and let her run with it.”

It felt like all Evelyn could do was laugh. They reached the door at the bottom in a run, and it burst open to admit them into the hall, laughing happily.  Josephine was standing near the throne, bemoaning something about the party being less than ideal, and deciding how to do it better when they threw the _formal_ celebration in a few weeks’ time.

“Josie,” Evelyn panted, running up to the Ambassador, Cullen in tow. “Josie, look.”

Josephine looked up, met Evelyn’s eyes, and then followed their gaze down to the ring on her hand. She had both hands around Evelyn’s wrist before the writing board hit the ground.

 _“No.”_  She said. “You didn’t!”

“We did! We’re going to get married.”

Evelyn watched as a thousand ideas sprung up in Josephine’s head, and the war in her expression was beautiful to behold. Before the Ambassador could say anything else, Evelyn leaned forward and whispered, “I have veto power… but do you want to plan it?”

Josephine threw herself into Evelyn’s arms, and the Inquisitor spun her Ambassador around like they were old friends. Leliana quickly appeared and bumped shoulders with Cullen while she waited her turn to congratulate Evelyn; of course the Spymaster knew, and had already seen the ring.

Josephine dragged Evelyn out onto the landing at the doors to the main hall, calling for an announcement. Bull appeared out of nowhere and lifted the Inquisitor onto his shoulder, bellowing for attention. They quickly had it – not silence, not this night, but definitely attention. Evelyn whispered her announcement into the Qunari’s ear, and he turned a surprised look at the Commander, saying “Really? Well fucking done, Curly,” before bellowing again at the jubilant Inquisition forces in the courtyard: The Herald and the Commander wanted to announce their engagement to the only people in the world who mattered: the men and women of the Inquisition.

Josephine would really rather he not phrase it that way, but it was the perfect address for the crowd.

The party went on unabated for three days.

 

*

 

They were married in Skyhold at high summer, their vows officiated over by the Divine Victoria. The remnants of House Trevelyan as well as the entire Rutherford family made the journey into the mountains to bless the union. Evelyn’s father was genuinely interested in the match his daughter made after hearing the rumors of Cullen’s popularity in Orlais. Evelyn became fast friends with Cullen’s sister, and the two were seen in the days leading up to the wedding giggling over a chess match in the garden while Cullen sat nearby, alternating between a furious blush and a happy grin.

Although the Inquisition and its first Inquisitor were both remembered for saving the world against the Venatori and the hole in the sky, Evelyn and Cullen became the source of a great folk legend, songs written by a bard named Maryden and corroborated by the famous book by Varric Tethras about the formation of the Inquisition.  They were remembered almost as a Queen and her General, for finding love in the midst of darkness, for saving each other even while saving the world, and somehow turning a tragedy into a heroic victory.

It is rumored their descendants pass three books down, from parent to child: the original manuscript of Varric’s book, with annotations from the Herald herself; a black-leather bound journal said to belong to Cullen Rutherford; and a small volume of tiny papers that were the missives they sent back and forth during the war. For whatever reason, however, their line bore only daughters, and their lineage was lost to time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hate me for a fluffy ending if you want. It makes me happy.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Stand in the Light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3874000) by [Unyeilding (siberia_eva)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siberia_eva/pseuds/Unyeilding)
  * [Of Fear and Faith](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4109434) by [KathSilver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathSilver/pseuds/KathSilver)
  * [Agents of Change: Reformation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3816694) by [Eisen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisen/pseuds/Eisen)




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